Of Ash And Fire
by GinnyRules
Summary: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Stranded in Tom Riddle's seventh year at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger is plagued by cryptic warnings from an intruder in the school. Time is running out for her in more ways than one as she attempts to return to her own time both to escape this mysterious threat, and the unavoidable allure of Riddle himself.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The characters and setting in this story belong to JK Rowling. Shocker.

**A/N:** I've been looking for something really weird and challenging to write as a distraction from my Real Life writer's block. I didn't even know this Tom Riddle/Hermione ship existed until recently, and then I laughed. And then I got sucked in. This story won't be a strong M, but some scenes later on will definitely qualify, so be warned. I haven't felt as weird about besmirching JKR's characters ever since I read The Casual Vacancy. The first chapter gets all the typical time travel exposition out of the way at once, so that we can move on to some more fun stuff in other chapters. Here goes...

**CHAPTER ONE**

Hermione Granger could not see. Her vision was obscured by the brim of the aged, tattered Sorting Hat, which even after all these years fell past her ears, encasing her in darkness.

_Please oh please oh please,_ she thought with all her might, clenching her hands into fists at her side.

_Ah, but what do we have here?_ The Sorting Hat's voice had always impressed Hermione as being a tad snide—an omniscient voice of judgment that saw its whole business as a bit of a joke. Now, however, it sounded genuinely curious.

_I'm begging you, I'm begging you, this is so very important_, she thought, so sharply her head hurt.

_You've already been sorted, I see,_ the Hat replied, faintly amused. _So why return? Old Ravenclaw appealing to you, is it?_

_No! Please oh please oh please!_

_Really? You're certain of that last? Very well,_ said the Hat. "SLYTHERIN!_"_

As the Hat was lifted from her head Hermione turned to face the end of the great Hall where the First Years stood by the head table awaiting their own sorting. Many were sporting looks of relief that suggested they had not been certain that Hermione's head would emerge from the Hat in one piece. She caught Albus Dumbledore's eye—how odd it was to see him sitting in what she thought of as McGonagall's place, at the Headmaster's side—and he winked at her. His beard was darker than she had ever seen it, and he seemed all-around wrong, but she drew reassurance from his gesture and stood to join the Slytherin table. Her relief at the hat's verdict mingled with an icy trickle of fear as she scanned the green-clad students applauding her arrival. Which of them would it be, she wondered? Would she know him when she saw him?

Finally she took a seat between a pair of seventh year boys who had obligingly shuffled aside to allow her room. If only they knew, she mused. Hermione doubted very much that her new housemates would have offered her such a warm welcome had Armando Dippet not introduced her as a foreign transfer student and a distant relative of the _pureblood_ Horace Slughorn.

"Evening there, Miss—?" said the sandy-haired boy on her left, extending a hand as the other boy leered.

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

"Pleasure. M'name's Copernicus but you can use my surname, Avery. That there's Antonin Dolohov."

"It's lovely to meet you," Hermione forced out in a very small voice. Good heavens, the _first two people she met_...

The sorting had begun, and as "Fletcher, Mundungus!" (the name caused Hermione to smile to herself a little) was placed in Ravenclaw Hermione allowed her eyes to wander to the person sitting directly across from her. She caught her breath quickly and had to remind herself to tear her gaze away, because the boy seated before her had the most arresting face she had ever seen. His features were almost offensively handsome, with dark eyes and hair that framed his face with a casual elegance. When he stood he would be tall, and well-muscled, and merely looking at him was something like receiving a physical impact.

Hermione let out a little cough to mask the awkward moment, because the boy had seen her looking and fixed her with an inscrutable gaze, his face a blank mask. Luckily, Avery chose this moment to try to reclaim her attention.

"What brings you to Hogwarts, then, Miss Granger?"

"My father was a curse breaker for Crowley Wizarding Bank in America." Hermione recited dutifully the story she and Dumbledore had agreed upon. "Mother died when I was a little girl and she attended Hogwarts. Father always said she would have liked me to give her old school a try, thought I attended the Salem Institute on and off for six years because of our travels. But he passed away last spring, so here I am."

Avery and Dolohov both offered a perfunctory "Sorry," while the dark haired boy continued to look at her in an appraising sort of way.

"Greyback, Fenrir!" called Dumbledore, beckoning another first year toward the Sorting Hat.

Hermione jumped and suppressed a gasp with great difficulty as an eleven year old Greyback was immediately sorted into Slytherin and swaggered up to the end of the table.

"Everything all right, Miss Granger?" asked Dolohov, almost as though he was someone with a modicum of human decency.

"Oh yes, and please call me Hermione. I'm sorry," she added loudly to the boy sitting across from her, because his staring was beginning to make her uncomfortable. "I didn't catch your name."

There was a pause, in which the boy's features rearranged themselves into a warm smile that seem quite genuine, yet somehow made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger, and welcome to Hogwarts. I'm Tom Riddle."

An eternity passed in a second as a tempest of warning bells was unleashed in Hermione's head. At last she managed to summon up what she hoped was a faint smile.

"Delighted, I'm sure."

* * *

The oppressive seawater green of the seventh-year Slytherin girls' dormitory lashed out at Hermione as she entered her room, her nerves frayed to the point of near collapse. She made certain that the door was closed firmly behind her before delving into her trunk and pulling out a gilded mirror, the surface of which had fractured in a hundred places as a result of its long journey, rendering it unusable. Or so it would seem

"Harry?" she said tentatively into the mirror. "Ron?"

"How are you holding up?" came Ron's anxious voice, and Hermione breathed a sigh of contentment. Just imagining him peering worriedly into the adjoining shard of Sirius's old mirror eased away a great deal of her anxiety.

"I'm here too," Ginny's voice chimed in.

"Are you all right?" Ron insisted. "You haven't been brainwashed or... or sold into marriage or something?"

"It's 1944 Ron, not the dark ages," Hermione pointed out.

"I just think you should be careful, that's all."

"Well, it isn't like I want to be here! What am I supposed to do, go live as a Muggle until Dumbledore finds a way to send me back?"

"We know, Hermione," said Ginny soothingly. "We're just concerned, that's all."

"Did you see him?" Harry interrupted.

"Yes, he's sleeping three doors down."

"He's _what?_" Harry and Ron cried in unison.

"Dumbledore and I agreed that it would be best if I was sorted into Slytherin. This is the only house with no girls in seventh year. This way I won't have any dorm mates asking uncomfortable questions while I try to mend this bloody time turner."

"But _You-Know-Bloody-Who—!_" said Ron.

"Keep your voice down," hissed Hermione.

"We're going to get you out of this soon, Hermione," Ginny interjected. "We'll find a way."

"Yeah, we will," said Harry earnestly. "Promise. And in the meantime keep your head down."

"I will," said Hermione. "I love you, all of you."

After a brief farewell she set down the mirror as delicately as if it were a newborn child, already feeling desolate without the voices of her friends to lend her strength and comfort. And Ron, worrying for her... It still felt as though she had been plunged into a nightmare and would wake at any moment in her own bed in Gryffindor tower, in _her_ present, with _her_ housemates. She had thought, after the final battle and Voldemort's defeat, that her trials would finally be over. Instead she had found herself, less than forty-eight hours later, cornered by the last bastion of desperate, defeated Death Eaters. Chased into the seventh floor, she had dashed toward the Room of Requirement. There, on the floor by the door, she had found just the thing to facilitate her escape. As Alecto Carrow had seized her ankle, sending her skidding painfully across the stone floor, she had kicked out to disentangle herself from her captor. Before Alecto could finish raising her way she had spun the dial on the time turner and the present had begun to fade around her.

And had kept on fading, and fading, until she had found herself in a Hogwarts that was strangely unfamiliar, with a time turner that had melted itself into little more than a blackened wreck from overexertion. To her immense relief she had still been carrying her beaded bag, in which Harry's Marauder's Map had been placed for safekeeping while efforts were undertaken to rebuild the castle. A quick visit to the trophy room had told her the date, to her consternation, and she had pulled the gilded mirror from her bag with her throat burning in fear.

Because she had known, as soon as reality had settled in. Her mind, always working to stay one step ahead, had told her that she would find herself in close proximity before long with a seventeen year old Lord Voldemort.

* * *

_This new student—this Hermione Granger—I'll be keeping an eye on her._

_ Dumbledore may be an old fool but he's an inconveniently sharp one, and he had his eye on her all through the feast. What's more, her reactions to everyone she was introduced to seemed completely arbitrary. She almost jumped out of her skin at the sorting of some inoffensive first year, and nearly fainted when I told her my name. She hid it well, I'll give her that. But I always know. What could my name mean to her? Could Dumbledore have put her here as a spy?_

_ No, I don't think so. She seems to have to discernible talents, other than her allure to my Slytherins. And that is more to the credit of their wantonness than her charms, which are few._

_ I have contacted Caractacus Burke, who has proved... persuadable as concerns my plans. Borgin, his associate, may need more convincing._

—_R _

* * *

The halls of Hogwarts before Dumbledore's time as Headmaster were nothing like what Hermione had expected. It seemed to her that a particular cloud of gloom hung over the school, one which bound the students' tongues and made them cast their eyes down when a dark-haired Slytherin and his gang passed through the corridors. Given everything she knew about Tom Riddle, this did not surprise Hermione. What surprised her was that she had been accepted, immediately and seamlessly, into the throng of older Slytherins who controlled the school. Avery, Dolohov, and several other members of Slughorn's clique of favorites all squired her about unnecessarily from class to class, vying for her attention in a way that made her wish Draco Malfoy could be made to witness their spectacle for ten seconds, just to see the smug look wiped from his face.

Unfortunately, her acceptance into this elite group placed her in far too frequent contact with Riddle, something she wished heartily to avoid. It seemed absurd that his appearance should be so utterly incongruous with the person she knew him to be. By all accounts he seemed charming and polite, never abusing the power afforded by his Head Boy's badge and seldom answering questions in class unless called upon, though when the latter happened he always had the correct answer. Hermione wondered whether she would have even noticed the rigidly concealed layer of contempt underneath the veneer of charm, had she not had prior knowledge of it.

She did her utmost to avoid attracting notice from Riddle and from her professors, an exercise which proved difficult, as Slughorn did not appear to have taken Dumbledore's instructions to "Help Miss Granger blend in" very much to heart. It caused her a little burst of pain every time she was called upon and forced to give the wrong answer. And in spite of all her efforts she still found herself sitting near enough Riddle at dinner to require a minimum of polite conversation. The situation made her so nervous that she could not help her hands shaking as she passed a pitcher of pumpkin juice to Avery, accidentally spilling its entire contents over the table.

"You seem a little on edge, Miss Granger," said Riddle. "I hope you're not ill?"

"Not at all," Hermione said. "The truth is..." The truth was that she was sitting across from a dangerous lunatic at dinner; she could _see_ Marvolo's ring on his finger, the sign that meant he had already killed his own father. She wondered how many of their classmates knew, and felt bile rise in her throat, unable to believe the mess she had landed in. _Rodolphus Lestrange _was buttering a crescent roll for her, for Merlin's sake.

"The truth is today has been a bit overwhelming. I think I might like to turn in early."

"Let me walk you to our Common Room, then," Riddle offered. "You must have had a hard go of it, finding your way around today, what with all the secret passageways and trick steps."

"We helped her out, didn't we?" said Avery with a self-satisfied smirk. "Let _me_ show you, Hermione, I—"

Riddle raised one eyebrow, calmly, pointedly. That was all it took. One eyebrow, and Avery desisted at once. But Hermione was already gathering up her things and stuffing them into her bag.

"Oh no, thank you, I really wouldn't want to impose," she muttered, hurrying away before they could protest.

She could feel eye burning into her back all the way out of the Great Hall, and turned fleetingly to see Elyse and Cedrella, a pair of sixth years, whispering behind their hands and gaping at her in dismay. It occurred to Hermione that, to any unsuspecting student, Riddle was merely a very talented, good-looking prefect, and that to refuse his invitation to accompany her to the Common Room verged on madness. However she had no time to dwell on the delusions of her housemates.

Five minutes later found her pounding on Dumbledore's office door, having located it on the Marauder's Map and circumvented an encounter with Peeves along the way by ducking through a hidden tapestry. She was invited inside promptly and felt a little thrill of sadness and elation, as she had the previous day, at seeing Dumbledore alive and well.

This Dumbledore, however, was not the same man she had come to know in her time. Though he had accepted her story almost without question when she had barged into his office on the eve of the start of term dressed in Muggle clothes fifty years ahead of the current fashion, she had come to realize that he still had some reservations about her. Which she supposed, all things considered, was to be expected.

"Miss Granger, before you attempt to convince me of your veracity with all manner of foreknowledge," he had said then, holding up one hand to halt her near hysterical monologue, "I am going to ask your permission to perform Legilimency on you."

"Of course!" Hermione had cried, smacking the palm of her hand against her forehead. "Yes, please proceed sir."

It was a strange sensation, sitting back and allowing someone to break into her head. She caught glimpses of her childhood, of her school days, even of an encounter with Viktor Krum that she would rather have kept private, and wondered what Dumbledore might be discovering. Whatever it was, it seemed to leave him satisfied of Hermione's honesty, because he emerged from her memories looking much more like his jovial self. Yet there was still an odd sort of glint in his eye when he looked at her sideways.

Only professors Slughorn and Dippet had been made aware of Hermione's true story, and she rather thought that the Headmaster was eager to step back and let Dumbledore handle the situation. She had been assured that the three men would to their best to research magical means of returning her to her own time, as time turners had yet to be invented. She had been somewhat appeased; she was not so calm at present.

"This arrangement was a terrible mistake, sir!" she exclaimed as soon as she was seated in one of Dumbledore's customary chintz armchairs. "Attending classes, pretending to be a pureblood snob, like the rest of them, especially getting sorted into Slytherin. I can't sir, I just _can't_ hang around Riddle as though he's—"

She stopped herself abruptly, unsure how much it was appropriate to reveal to Dumbledore about Riddle's future.

"I take this to mean your adjustment into Slytherin has not gone as planned?" said Dumbledore, glossing over the uncomfortable pause.

"It's going_ too_ well, that's the problem. I'd rather have to leave Hogwarts than be forced to friendship with these—with these—_awful_ people. There are other things I could be doing while you look for a solution to my situation. I have a few good curses I'd love to try out on Hitler, for instance—"

"The German? Indeed... Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, twinkling kindly at Hermione over his half-moon spectacles, "you impress me as quite an intelligent young woman, so I will not waste your time explaining the myriad reasons why it would be unwise to tamper in the Muggle world. I think, instead, that you should consider the opportunity you have been given."

"Opportunity, sir?"

"Tom Riddle is clearly of some importance to your future. Why not use your time here to gather information, to survey his actions; as it is, in any case, too late to reassign you to another house."

"But it wouldn't really—I mean, that isn't something that would make a—" Hermione bit her lip in frustration. "It's difficult to explain, sir."

"I don't doubt it," Dumbledore replied. "However I have every confidence that you will rise to the occasion. And if nothing else, please consider remaining at Hogwarts for your own safety. Dark forces are on the rise outside these walls, Miss Granger, not only in the Muggle world but in our world as well. This castle may be the safest place for you."

Hermione heaved a heavy sigh, and her eyes fell on a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ laid out on Dumbledore's desk. The front page headline read, "_Grindelwald Victim Toll Rises._"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said quietly, unable to look away from the smiling, waving photographs of the dead beneath the headline.

Dumbledore gave her a long, searching look that seemed to penetrate to her very marrow. "I think, Miss Granger, that it would be unwise for you to reveal to me more than what is strictly necessary of your knowledge of my future."

"But... you used Legilimency before, to look inside my head. What did you see?"

"I merely skimmed the surface, I assure you."

Hermione stood at last, reluctantly. "You will keep looking for a replacement for the time turner, won't you?"

"I shall give the matter my full attention. Good night, Miss Granger."

"Good night, professor."

* * *

The Slytherin Common Room was bustling when Hermione entered it. Upon catching sight of her Avery shoved a third year roughly out of the nearest armchair, and gestured t her to sit down. Forced to take the place between Avery and Riddle, she sat rigidly and clenched her hands at her sides to prevent them from trembling.

"I hope you're feeling better?" Riddle enquired in a silken voice.

"Yes, thank you, I was just—" The rest of her sentence was drowned by a loud chorus of laughter on her right, where Lestrange and Mulciber, another seventh year, were brandishing a copy of the _Prophet_.

"Seen this, Tom?" asked Lestrange, who in his excitement did not notice the flicker of irritation that passed over Riddle's face at the use of his given name. "Couple more mudlboods been done in, over in Romania. Grindelwald's work. And quite right too, eh?"

"Grindelwald is sloppy," Riddle commented lazily. "He targets filth at random when he should be infiltrating the foreign ministries. Amusing as his antics are, they won't get him anywhere."

"How do you know he isn't infiltrating, then?" asked Mulciber.

Riddle did not speak, but held out his hand. A copy of the_ Prophet_ was immediately thrust at him.

"Couple mudbloods less, though, can't complain," piped up Avery, and Hermione felt sick to her stomach. "What do you say, Hermione?"

"Oh," she replied, her voice mercifully steady despite the rage burning at her insides. "I think he's... really something. Grindelwald."

"Not for much longer, if you ask me," said Riddle idly.

A queer hush fell over the room, as those members of Riddle's inner circle exchanged meaningful glances and Riddle's eyes flickered up from his paper to look directly at Hermione, threatening to engulf her. She wanted to scream, wanted to run, but she could not tear herself away.

"Got to give him credit, though," insisted Avery, whom Hermione could not believe was so foolish as to still be speaking. "Man of action, like. Goes after what he wants, is what I mean."

Hermione could not help but notice that Avery's hand had somehow come to rest just above her knee, uncomfortably warm and heavy. Her eyes widened and she shrugged it off, but he only returned it a moment later, grinning sloppily. Hermione's breathing quickened, and she tried to think of a way out that would not result in her expulsion from the tightly knit group seated by the fire. The only thing worse than being among Riddle's friends, she knew, would be to be among his enemies.

"Eh, Hermione?" Avery insisted, his hand sliding further up her leg.

Before anyone knew what was happening, Riddle's wand was in his hand. He flicked it, quick as a viper, so that Avery was thrown back forcefully as though he had been struck across the face. The silence in the Common Room was now suffocating.

"I suggest you stop making Miss Granger uncomfortable," said Riddle mildly. "I would hate to have to take points from my own house."

Avery got to his feet, looking mutinous, and gave a curt nod. The other Slytherins made quick work of hitching forced smiles on their faces and resuming the flow of conversation, as though this kind of thing happened all the time—and it probably did, Hermione reflected.

Once Avery had stalked off, Riddle leaned forward.

"I notice you haven't thanked me," he observed.

"I—" the words stuck in Hermione's throat, but he only looked amused.

"And," he went on, "you're as afraid of me as ever. I'm starting to think you aren't as dim-witted as you try very hard to appear, Miss Granger."

What could she say? What could she possibly say?

"Please," she breathed, "call me Hermione."

Riddle stood, grasped her hand, slowly, deliberately, and pressed a ghost of a kiss across her knuckles.

"Good night, then, Hermione." He walked away, leaving Hermione frozen with her heart beating fast, much too fast in her chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Wow only one chapter in and all these follows already! Thanks guys. And special thanks to anyone who reviewed. I'm usually pretty good at answering reviews so to any lurkers out there, come join the party! We have Christian Coulson gifs... And by the way, for those of you who like reading really dark Tom (I know you're out there, I've seen the tumblr tags), don't worry, there will be something for you soon. I can't make his evil side really evident seeing as he was everyone's pet, the perfect Head Boy and all that.

PS has anyone seen the new Starkid announcement? A Very Potter Senior Year you guys! I am all kinds of psyched. OK, enjoy...

**CHAPTER TWO**

_ I was forced to reprimand Avery last night. He's grown complacent over the summer—they all have. I'm going to have to think of some way to remind them of what they're sworn to. Far too much of my energy is expanded keeping such dim-witted followers in check._

_ I thought that the girl, Granger—Hermione, might start to trust me after my intervention with Avery. But she's as petrified of me as ever. It's... vexing._

_ I know now beyond a doubt that she's hiding something. It didn't take long for me to discover her game in class, though I'm not surprised the rest of our colleagues have failed to notice. She knows all the correct answers when called upon, but deliberately gives them in the wrong sequence. This morning Slughorn asked Mulciber the function of a bezoar. The imbecile blathered something about Kelpies, and Slughorn in turn asked Hermione about shrinking solutions. She replied that they were an antidote to most poisons. Slughorn seemed discouraged, and tried asking her the effects of the Draught of Living Death. She answered by describing the precise effects of a shrinking solution._

_ It's almost as though her mind is too far off, concocting some scheme, to bother coming up with real lies._

_ She cringed when I touched her._

_ It was an intriguing reaction, and a little perplexing—Not that I care. But I've seen the eyes of the other girls in this school following my every move. I wouldn't think she would have minded. Hermione._

_ I will find out what she's hiding, it's a simple matter of time. And delicacy. It wouldn't do to addle the mind of Slughorn's—and Dumbledore's—protégé with a vulgar curse. But there are other ways of getting what I want, there always are._

—_R_

* * *

It had always been to Hermione's great regret that her sixth year had produced insufficient demand for an Alchemy class, which was only offered when interest was expressed by seven or more students. She was therefore delighted, as well as dismayed, to learn that the subject was being offered in 1944. Delighted because the renowned amateur alchemist Griselda Marchbanks was to be giving the class, and dismayed because the only other member of her house to have enrolled turned out to be, of course, Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle, who stood when she entered the room and pulled out her chair for her.

"Who would have thought you were interested in Alchemy?" she muttered, visions of her eleven year old self racing to escape a three-headed dog and a murderous game of chess flashing through her head.

Riddle cocked an eyebrow but said nothing, as professor Marchbanks tottered into the room and pointed her wand at the blackboard. Curly white letters appeared there, spelling out...

"Alkahest!" chirped Marchbanks. "The pinnacle of our studies this term."

_The universal solvent,_ Hermione wrote neatly at the top of her notes. _Credit Paracelsus, circa. 307 A.D._

"Who can tell me the origins of the quest for the Alkahest?" asked Marchbanks, scanning the students. "Ah, how about you, Mr. Moody?"

"Moody?" Hermione breathed, astounded. The sullen boy with his face intact, sitting at the next table, was so changed that she had not even noticed him. It was not until he leaned forward in his seat that she recognized the electric blue eye swiveling wildly in its socket.

"Universal solvent," Moody grunted.

"Very good!" Marchbanks squeaked. "Ten points to Gryffindor. Now—"

"Professor?" Riddle said unexpectedly, raising his hand. "Who would you say was the originator of the Alkahest theory?"

Hermione frowned and glanced down at her notes, only to see them sitting in Riddle's hands.

"A very good question, Tom! Well, anyone?"

Riddle twitched his wand under the table, and neat words appeared on Hermione's second sheet of blank parchment.

_Care to illuminate us?_

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. She did not know whether to be terrified or exasperated. She raised her hand.

"It was Paracelsus, professor."

"Quite right, Miss—?"

"Granger, professor."

"Take ten points for Slytherin, Miss Granger. Yes, Paracelsus had some particular ideas about the properties of the Alkahest..."

_Trying to pass yourself off as a Hufflepuff?_ appeared on her parchment.

_Why are you interested?_ Hermione asked, flicking her wand and causing the words to appear on the page in Riddle's hands.

_I want to know why someone's who's spent the last six years overseas seems so familiar with this school—Greyback, Moody—and me. Where are you really from,_ Hermione?

_Yes that's right, you've caught me,_ Hermione sent back, rolling her eyes sarcastically in Riddle's direction. _I'm a time-traveling spy sent from the future to find out all your secrets. Happy?_

Riddle snorted and wiped the parchments blank with a wave of his wand. Hermione felt an odd sense of elation: how could it have been so easy to throw him off track? It was disgruntling to think of Riddle as a seventeen year old capable of being deceived and manipulated. Capable of passing notes in class and smiling without a flash of red in his eyes.

When the bell rang some fifty minutes later, Hermione gathered her things in a rush. Still, Riddle managed to precede her, holding the door open courteously and leaving her with no choice but to walk out into the courtyard with him towards the greenhouses for Herbology. They passed the pumpkin patch she knew as Hagrid's, and Hermione's nostalgia for the days of taking tea with Harry and Ron in the gamekeeper's cabin swept over her. She could not help but sigh sadly when she caught sight of a flock of thestrals emerging from the treetops, and followed their progress through the sky until they were out of sight. It did not surprise her in the slightest that Riddle seemed to be able to see them too.

Hermione was beginning to grow anxious at the silence that stretched on between them when she was suddenly bowled over by a student who ran past with their head down and the hood of their cloak up, not even stopping to apologize. She was thrown off balance and would have hit the ground had Riddle not caught her, neatly and smoothly, and set her on her feet with a crooked half smile. He did not let go, but rather allowed his hands to linger on her wrists, soft and warm and close enough to feel her racing pulse.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I—Yes. I mean... I don't quite—"

Hermione took a stumbling half-step forward and leaned against the wall of the cabin for support, determinedly ignoring Riddle's hand trailing along her arm as he let go of her. She thought the hooded student might have bruised her somehow. Pressed as they were against the corner of the wall, Hermione and Riddle caught a snatch of heated conversation between two students striding across the grounds, and were able to listen in long before the speakers came into view.

"—don't care what Riddle has to say about it, this is nothing to do with our vows and tasks and all that rubbish," said the first voice, Avery's, angrily.

"Keep it down!" the second hissed. "It's dangerous, talking like that."

"What? Has he got magical hearing now? Besides, it's only fair. He gets the Head's badge, the glory, every professor in his pocket. Probably be Minister some day. Not gonna have him take the girls too, are we? 'Specially now we've finally got some decent stock coming in."

"You're assuming she'd even have you," insisted the second voice, which belonged to Gibbon, another seventh year. Hermione wondered who they were talking about. She could feel Riddle bristling next to her.

"Shut it," Avery snapped. "Just you wait. I'm going to shag Granger senseless, mark my words. Riddle can wait his turn."

Hermione gasped, her insides squirming with disgust.

"I'm telling you, he won't like it. You know what happens when he's not happy. What's so special about Granger, anyway? She's fit, yeah, but apart from that..."

"Pureblood lineage for centuries, idiot! You know Slughorn's family tree. And she's foreign and all, isn't she? Probably knows a thing or two."

The voices were just around the corner now. Hermione pulled out her wand and hastily disillusioned herself, a trick she had developed quite a knack for while on the run with Harry. She could not even see her own hands once the charm was cast. Something caught her attention, and she realized that she was suddenly alone. But no—Riddle had simply disillusioned himself at the same moment as her.

"Look, it's free period, can we talk about this later?" said Gibbon, appearing around the corner with a scowling Avery. "I want to get down to the pitch and practice. It's tryouts on Friday."

Hermione waited until they had passed before rapping herself on the head with her wand and restoring her normal appearance. To her left Riddle did the same. There was a peculiar sort of carefully restrained fury about him as he pocketed his wand.

"It would appear that our classmates are quite uncivilized," he said. His voice was brittle; a thin layer of frost over glass.

Hermione was barely listening. She let out a small gasp of pain and clutched at her forearm as darts of vicious agony shot up to her shoulder.

"What is it?"

"I think—I think I've been poisoned." Hermione pulled up her torn sleeve and saw that the cloaked students had not only bruised her but left a deep cut in her skin. And on the cut...

"Wartcap powder," said Riddle calmly. "Harmless enough to the skin, but in the bloodstream... You need the infirmary. Let me take you. Madame McLaggen will sort you out."

"McLaggen?" said Hermione, diverted. "No, I don't think so, really. I need to see Dumbledore. Fawkes will do the trick."

"Fawkes?"

"Dumbledore's phoenix. Phoenix tears will help, no problem."

Riddle gave her a curious look. "Dumbledore doesn't have a phoenix."

"What?" Hermione panted, clutching at her arm. "No, I'm sure he does. Take me to Dumbledore, I don't need the hospital wing."

"I insist," said Riddle, and Hermione quailed. It was a clear order, nothing less. A tone of voice that would brook absolutely no argument.

Hermione allowed herself to be led to the hospital wing, struggling to act as though she did not know where she was going while pain shot up her arm in waves. The Matron made quick work of putting dittany on her cut—something which, Hermione brooded, she could easily have done herself—and unfortunately insisted on keeping her for observation once she had healed.

"Why don't I stay with you?" Riddle offered. "Your aggressor might come back."

"No, thank you," said Hermione firmly. The last thing she needed was Tom Riddle taking advantage of her addles state to ask more questions about her past. A flicker of something darker than irritation, something more dangerous, passed over his face, and Hermione wondered if he had ever been made to put in so much effort to win someone over before.

"I really think it would be wise," he went on. "As Head Boy it's the least I can do. And then maybe you could tell me how you became so good at casting disillusionment charms."

But the shock of Avery and Gibbon's conversation and the pain in her arm had short-circuited the part of Hermione's brain that whispered caution in her ear, as often happened when she was pushed to the limits of her endurance.

"_No_. The game is up, Riddle, all right? I'm better at spells than I let on. I didn't want anyone to think Slughorn was showing favoritism by giving me extra help. It's not easy starting over at a new school surrounded by—_depraved_ boys, when I'm still trying to forget about my father. So I would appreciate it if you would stop asking all sorts of stupid questions and _leave me alone._"

A ringing silence followed her words. For a moment Hermione really thought he might curse her.

"How did he die?" Riddle asked abruptly.

"W—What?"

"Your father. I lost my family too. How did he die?"

"He ran afoul of a lethifold," she said evenly.

"I see. Were you there?"

"No, of course not."

"And your mother? You lost her too?"

"Yes, she was—one of Grindelwald's first victims."

"But you would be too young to remember that, I suppose. Any other friends or family of yours passed away?"

Hermione had the uncomfortable feeling that he was trying to catch her in a lie, and threw her hands up in exasperation. "No! No one's died around me. I'm not hiding any corpses. What were you expecting?"

"Really?" said Riddle, giving her a venomous smile. "Tell me, then. How is it that you can see the thestrals?"

Hermione's heart dropped into her stomach.

"I—I mean—"

Riddle walked up to the edge of Hermione's hospital bed and dipped his head low to whisper in her ear. His breath was fresh and warm against her throat.

"You're lying," he purred. "And you'll find that lying to me is... not wise. Try to remember that."

Hermione blinked, trying to fight down a whimper. By the time she had taken a steadying breath he was gone. She was alone in the infirmary with the sound of her frightened heartbeat.

Except that she was not alone. A scuffling noise issuing from Madame McClaggen's office startled her, and she sat up in her bed to glance through the window. The blinds were drawn, but she could see two figures silhouetted against the wall. Diving into her pocket, she retrieved her beaded bag and pulled out one of the Weasley twins' trusty old extendable ears in order to hear what was happening in the office.

"—do you mean?" one of the figures was whispering. There was something familiar about his voice, but Hermione could not quite place what it was.

"The rise of fire and ash," the second figure whispered. They were murmuring so low that Hermione was hard pressed to determine whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. "Don't you understand? Fire and ash. It all comes back around!"

At that moment the Matron bustled back into the hospital wing and Hermione tugged the extendable ear out of sight. By the time she looked back, the two figures in the office had vanished.

* * *

"Ron!" Hermione shouted, picking up the gilded mirror from the bedside table in her dormitory and holding it up to her face. "Something's wrong! Are you there, Ron?"

"Ron and Ginny aren't here, Hermione, I'm sorry," Harry's voice replied. "They're with George. He—er, he isn't doing so well."

"Right," said Hermione, trying to hide her disappointment. "Of course."

"Never mind," said Harry. "How are you doing? What's the problem?"

"Someone tried to poison me."

"You're serious? Was it—?"

"No, no. I know for a fact it wasn't Riddle. Which is worrying. I have enough on my plate without another lunatic wandering around the school."

"Do you have any idea who might have done it?"

"None. Their face was hidden, and they got away. Although there was something after, in the hospital wing." She told him about the incident with the two shadowy figures in the nurse's office. "And then Avery—well, I've had a bit of a bad day."

"_Avery?_ Hermione, we're going to get you out of there," said Harry fiercely. "We've got everything that's left of the order and the DA researching time travel."

"Have you found anything?"

"Well, you see, the thing is that time turners are really complicated and rare. There were only ever a dozen or so in existence, and we smashed them when we went to the Department of Mysteries. It could take weeks, even months to build a new one."

"I _know_, Harry."

"Yes, but that's why I'm looking into something different. Trust me, Hermione, I have a plan."

"Right," said Hermione, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "Listen, Harry, I've got to go. I could only get the hospital wing to release me by promising to take a sleeping potion this time."

"Still sticking to the rules, then," said Harry, and Hermione's heart contracted. She could _hear_ the smile in his voice. "Stay safe, Hermione."

"Bye, Harry."

Putting down the mirror, Hermione pulled the blackened remains of the time-turner from her beaded bag and examined them. If she could ever get a moment's peace away from Avery or Riddle she might be able to go to the library and research methods of magical repair. For whatever Harry said, she suspected that if she could make even an inch of progress, Dumbledore would be able to do the rest.

Feeling weary down to her bones, Hermione tipped back the goblet of sleeping draught Madame McLaggen had forced into her hands and drank its contents in one. She hardly had time to lay back onto her pillows before her eyelids became pleasantly heavy, and she sank into a dreamless slumber.

As soon as she awoke, Hermione became aware that she was not alone.

With a cry of alarm she sat up to see Tom Riddle sitting casually in a plush armchair in the corner, looking effortlessly handsome as ever with his long legs stretched out before him and his arms resting behind his head. He was watching her, silently, with his head tilted to the side and an inscrutable look in his eyes. There was something of the snake in his movements, even now.

"What—How did you get it here?" Hermione demanded, pushing unruly masses of hair out of her face.

"Head Boy's privilege. I have all the school passwords."

"I'll bet you do," Hermione muttered darkly.

Riddle smirked and stood, offering a hand to help her up. "Come with me."

"Why?"

"Your presence is requested at a... meeting of some choice students. There are some things that need clearing up, and some things you might find it to your advantage to see."

There was nothing for it. Hermione stood and followed Riddle out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Happy doomsday to all! Thought I'd celebrate with an update, seeing as the world hasn't seen fit to collapse on itself yet. I'm sort of happy with how this turned out? Maybe? Just fyi, I know Tom's diary entries seem a bit angsty but that doesn't mean he's going to come over all emotional or fluffy. Also, if you're looking for fics that feature a well characterized Riddle I urge you to read anything by the astronomically talented Speechwriter whose work I've just discovered. Holy moly. Seriously, go read Ad Infinitum right now. (Yeah I said holy moly, what of it?)

My deepest thanks to the following people for your wonderful reviews: **NSteph2883, Hermione Voldemort Riddle, Dodge1989, BrightestWitchOfHerAge16, PLacIDwiCkedNEss, HPFanGirl01, mh21**... And if I've left anyone out I am so so sorry, I'll catch you next time. Also, to the guest who keeps leaving reviews in French: Merci! Pourquoi ne pas te créer un compte sur ce site pour que je puisse te répondre?

**CHAPTER THREE**

"Sit," ordered Riddle.

Hermione sat down by a portrait of a haughty looking wizard in the seventh year boys' dormitory. She had expected something a little more grandiose: the forbidden forest, perhaps, or the Room of Requirement. The locale was almost... disappointing. A subdued Avery sat across from her on a rigid wooden chair, surrounded by a circle of Lestrange, Gibbon, Mulciber, and Dolohov. Riddle strode amongst them, perfectly at ease, seeming to drink in their apprehension.

"Why am I here?" asked Hermione.

"It's come to my attention that some of you are _displeased_ with my leadership this year," said Riddle in his silkiest voice. He gazed at Avery, whose jaw trembled. "Never have it said that I'm not democratic. Every voice will be heard and counted. So, Avery, would you care to make your pitch?"

"I don't—" Avery looked wildly all around the room for help that did not come. "What do you mean?"

"To Miss Granger," Riddle clarified acidly. "Is there anything you'd like to say to Miss Granger? As you can see I make no move to stop you."

Gibbon gave a small, nervous chuckle that he managed to turn into a cough. To Hermione's relief, Avery had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut.

"I see," Riddle went on, now deadly quiet. "So I take it this means, then, that your problem is only with me?"

"No!" said Avery. "Believe me Tom, I—"

Hermione closed her eyes and suppressed a groan. It seemed that Avery, too, realized his mistake, for he raised his hands in apology. But it was too late. Riddle swooped down on him at once.

"What have I told you," he snarled, his face an inch from Avery's, "about using that name?"

"I'm sorry."

Riddle smiled. "So am I."

He waved his wand. At first Hermione though that Avery had been reprieved, but then she heard it: a low hissing sound issuing from beneath the bed at the far end of the room. A jade green, venomous looking snake emerged slowly into the center of the circle of students.

"You all need to be reminded of what you're sworn to," said Riddle. He did not need to raise his voice; his words filled the room, ringing in every ear. "Of what those vows you took last year mean. Consider this a refresher course."

He hissed, a harsh, guttural sound that made the snake rear up and face Avery. Hermione knew what was going to happen, then. She could see it in the boys' eyes. Not death, but something horrific, something that had happened before. Her heart was racing, urging her to do something, anything. She had seen the men before her commit murders and terrible acts of torture—but not yet. _These_ boys were merely frightened and helpless and she could not sit back and watch what was about to happen, no matter what the consequences to herself.

No spell occurred to her that could affect a creature magically conjured by Riddle, so she did the only thing she could think of. She had heard Harry do it in second year, and countless more times as he spoke in his sleep when they were living in the tent. If Ron could make a passable imitation of it to open the Chamber of Secrets, so could she.

"_Stop!_" she said in Parseltongue.

The looks on the Slytherins' faces were almost worth whatever would come next. The snake pulled back docilely and peered at her, awaiting further orders. The air around Riddle seemed to crackle with electricity as he drew himself up to full height and turned to look at her. She felt as though her insides had transformed into lead.

"It seems," Riddle said at last, in a voice so toneless it was unnerving, "that Miss Granger has bought you a reprieve, Avery."

Far from looking grateful, Avery avoided Hermione's gaze and nodded, his eyes downcast.

"And?" said Riddle.

Avery looked up, confused.

Riddle sneered. "_And_ you'll watch your step from now on?"

"Yes," said Avery quickly. "Right. Yes."

He scurried away as Riddle waved his wand, causing the snake to vanish with a small _crack_. Though no more was said, the others seemed to recognize a dismissal, for they filed out one by one, leaving Hermione at the mercy of Riddle's searching gaze.

"You're full of surprises, Granger."

Hermione stayed silent. This was not the outcome she had been expecting. Never had she thought that Riddle would back down—would shelve his pride, so to speak—so easily. It was one thing to think of the others as boys who had not yet passed the point of no return, but _him_? Hermione glanced down at Marvolo's ring on his hand. He was tapping it rhythmically against a bedpost. There was something there, she thought, something she could use, if only she was not constantly being distracted by her housemates' schemes.

Belatedly, Hermione realized that she had, by all appearances, been staring vacantly at Riddle's bed. She hastened to look away, but not before catching a sly sort of look in his eye.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me _how_ you acquired such a... unique ability as speaking Parseltongue?" he said.

"I'm not a Parselmouth by birth, if that's what you mean."

"No, I wouldn't think so. Tell me, Granger, are you sorry?"

Hermione swallowed her fear and forced her voice to remain steady. "About what?"

"I don't think Avery will be bothering you again. Are you sorry?"

"No, not at all," she said honestly, confused by the change of subject. Riddle smiled again—how was it that his smile was not more like the terrifying leer she remembered?—and propped his elbow against the bedpost to lean his head against his hand. He was tall, so tall, but suddenly his face was on level with hers.

"I didn't think so," he said softly. "No, I didn't think you'd like him to—what was it?—_shag you senseless_. Not _him_."

She could not understand where he was going with this. She would not, could not, accept what he was saying. She could see the taut lines of the muscles in his shoulders move under his white cotton oxford as he reached out, deliberately, and brushed her cheek with his hand.

"Someone _else_, maybe."

Her heart stopped, for a very long moment, and gave way to a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. Terrible because—because—because it was _good_.

"Don't," she murmured, her voice trembling with something, maybe anger, "_ever _touch me again."

She could hear him laughing softly behind her as she left.

* * *

_She said three things._

_ I watched her, Granger, for some time while she slept, and she said three things in her sleep._

_ The first was a name, Ron. Probably a boy from whatever school she attended before—which I'm starting to doubt more and more was the Salem Institute as she claims. A plebeian name if ever there was one. Probably some giant inarticulate boy who would crush her flat if he so much as tried to hold her hand. She has the most delicate hands._

_ The second thing she said was more interesting: Voldemort._

_ I have little doubt which of the idiots I've been so carefully cultivating these last six years has made the mistake of spreading that name around. But my attempt to correct Avery's behavior didn't go quite as planned._

_ But even more importantly, the third thing she said was horcruxes._

_ I've underestimated her._

_ I wondered, at first, if she might have been a spy of Grindelwald's sent here for Dumbledore, and not me after all. But no, it's not possible—not remotely likely, anyway. A pretty little thing like her wouldn't last a week in Grindelwald's ranks._

_ So I'm left with a rather enormous problem. Because her knowledge of horcruxes—and possible of _my _interest in them, _my_ plans—means something is very much out of place in this castle. Urgently so._

_ I tried everything short of the grossly illegal to get her to confess her secrets. Politeness and attention to her injury this morning (another perplexing incident to consider) got me nowhere. I tried scaring her—by far the most useful technique, normally. But even the usual theatrics with the snake didn't impress her._

_ She—_

_ I couldn't believe it._

_ She _spoke Parseltongue_._

_ She could be very dangerous to me, or very useful, depending on how I play my cards. Whatever she's hiding might well have to become my main focus now, I could see that clearly as soon as it happened. _It_. Parseltongue, _my_ birthright, on _her _lips. This mystery is of the utmost importance._

_ So... I tried something else. I tried to seduce her. To charm her. I was persuasive, I know I was. I could feel her pulse quicken and see the color in her face. Yet somehow this, of all things, seemed to make her angriest._

_ I've never—that aspect of... It's never been important to me. The girls my housemates sometimes bring up to the dormitory seem like such poor-spirited creatures. Distractions. I'm not so weak as them. Still, it would have been an... interesting experiment._

_ Horcruxes. Parseltongue. I considered just killing her, if only for a second. I could easily dispose of a body. There would be nothing but a missing person's announcement in the _Prophet_ and all this nonsense would be dealt with. Except that it would be a very poor tactical move that would set Dumbledore on the warpath again. And whoever has sent Granger here will be easier to ferret out if I can get her to cooperate. A memory charm, of course, would be just as easily detected by Dumbledore._

_ Besides, there's no call for overt violence if I want to have her on my side. And I do. With the abilities she revealed today, she could be a valuable asset to me._

_ I'll increase the frequency of my extracurricular Legilimency lessons with Professor Marchbanks. This seems like the simplest course of action, though it may take a few weeks. In the meantime I'll keep a close eye on Granger, whether she likes it or not._

—_R_

* * *

The remainder of Hermione's first week of classes felt more like a month, though it passed relatively busily. A voice in her head that sounded very much like Ron's pointed out to her sometimes that as she had no intention of staying for much longer she need not have loaded her schedule with so many classes. Yet she was curious about the workings of the magical world in a time before the existence of so many of the inventions she knew in her day. She only wished she could have taken up Muggle Studies again, but felt that this would have strained the credulity of her housemates.

After the incident with the snake Hermione was glad to find that, while remaining courteous, her fellow seventh years were treating her with more caution. The exception was Riddle, whose constant attention was as irritating as it was inescapable.

She realized now that he must suspect something of the truth about her. Why else—why else at _all_—would he have behaved the way he had that night in his dormitory? She countered his constant looks and streams of questions by spending as much time as possible isolated in the library doing research. To her frustration, however, any books she managed to find on time travel were maddeningly simplistic. Meanwhile Harry and Ron remained optimistic but reported no progress whenever she spoke to them in the mirror. She was thus in a pretty towering temper by the time she arrived in Defense Against the Dark Arts on Friday morning. Riddle had pulled out an empty chair for her as usual, but she scowled and sat herself by Mulciber and Dolohov, who were eagerly discussing that afternoon's Quidditch tryouts. It was with difficulty that she restrained herself from rolling her eyes.

One good thing about Riddle's suspicion was that she need no longer bother to hide her knowledge in class. She did not wish to attract much attention so she seldom volunteered answers, but at least was able to give proper ones when called upon. And that day's lesson was...

"The Patronus charm!" squeaked Galatea Merrythought. The professor's heavily lined face seemed to fold in on itself as she smiled at them all. "Once a vastly popular charm at public events, celebrations, parades until the introduction of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1592—"

"1692," Hermione corrected automatically, before remembering who she was speaking to and blushing furiously. Across the table Riddle's eyebrows flew up and he looked deeply amused.

"Eh, what was that?" asked Merrythought vaguely.

"Er..." The woman was a year away from retirement, Hermione recalled. It was natural that her memory might be going. "I'm sorry, professor, it's just that the Statue of Secrecy was passed in 1692."

"Yes indeed? Yes, quite right, Miss Granger. Take ten points but please try to refrain from interrupting me again. As I was saying, when public displays were banned the spell fell largely out of practice. Dead useful, but there are many grown witches and wizards today who do not attempt it. Its potency is in the strength of the caster's conviction in the pleasant thoughts they draw upon while conjuring it. This is most easily demonstrated through a little test I like to call the duel of the Patronuses."

If they had ever had a proper Defense teacher beyond their third year in her day, she would have known these things, Hermione thought crossly. Harry had done brilliantly with the DA, of course, but it was not as though he had all his qualifications.

"So!" Merrythought went on briskly, tottering between the rows. "You will divide into pairs and cast your Patronuses at once another. The object is for one Patronus to chase down the other, displaying dominance. Be sure to remain focussed upon the pleasant memory of your choice. The incantation, as you will have learned from your textbooks, is _Expecto Patronum_. Begin!"

Hermione glanced around the room, but it was too late. The Ravenclaws with whom they shared the lesson were already pairing off together and since the incident with the snake not even Avery or Lestrange had offered to work with her in class. The only person left was...

"Ready?" said Riddle, his wand already raised.

Hermione looked quickly at the other pairings. Many appeared incapable of producing even a wisp of a Patronus. A few Ravenclaws had managed some corporeal shapes and in the corner Dolohov and Gibbon were shooting off puffs of silver vapour that looked vaguely reptilian. She hated to imagine what they would think of her otter, which was hardly in the Slytherin fashion.

She nodded curtly at Riddle and raised her wand, thinking of the moment when Harry had emerged from under his cloak during the final battle and she had realized he was not dead.

"Expecto Patronum!" they both shouted.

Hermione almost dropped her wand in shock. Riddle's Patronus had emerged as an enormous, fully formed thestral that galloped around the room before descending upon Hermione's otter. She hastened to collect herself and, once past the initial shock, focussed her attention once more on the elation she had felt after the final battle. The otter stood, faced the thestral, and did not back down.

Hermione was vaguely aware that every other pairing in the room had halted mid-action to watch their progress. Shock flitted across Riddle's face as he twitched his wand, egging the thestral on. Hermione did the same, and a peculiar sort of dance began, in which the otter swooped around until the wisps of silver light surrounding it began to intertwine themselves with those around the thestral. They were fighting for control, and the thestral reared its skeletal head but could not break free, and a magnificent feeling was beginning to flow back through Hermione's arm from her Patronus. It was the same warm, tingling sensation she had experienced on her first day in Ollivander's, when her wand—her faithful wand that had thankfully been found on Bellatrix Lestrange's person after the final battle—had chosen her. She felt inexpressibly powerful, as though with a single spell she could swoop through the whole castle...

"Excellent, excellent!" Merrythought exclaimed shrilly. "Observe, everyone: perfect balance! Well done Tom, Miss Granger. Now, the rest of you..."

As Merrythought turned away Hermione lowered her wand, and the connection was broken with a snap. She was not at all sure that she liked the surge of endless, thrilling power she had felt a moment ago. Riddle, on the other hand, was flushed and breathing heavily, the wild enjoyment in his eyes making him look somehow less human. It surprised Hermione, floored her, really, that she had managed to match him in magical skill. She thought she knew how it had happened: the wand in Riddle's hand shared a core with Harry's, which her wand had broken only months ago. Though at this point in time those events had yet to happen, Riddle's wand had still recognized hers as a powerful opponent.

"Impressive, Granger," said Riddle, breaking her from her reverie. "Almost _too_ impressive."

"I guess I just had a good memory to draw from."

"And what memory was _that?_"

_I was thinking of the day we killed you_, she thought, and said nothing.

Thirty minutes later, at the time of the bell, Hermione was still deep in thought. When she raised her head to see the rest of the groups end their practice and gather their books, she noticed something odd.

"Where did professor Merrythought go?" she wondered out loud.

Riddle, who was the only one that had listened, nodded at the door and said, "She stepped out ten minutes ago."

"In the middle of class?" No sooner had she said it did Merrythought burst suddenly back into the room.

The other students had all filed out and only Hermione and Riddle remained to see the strange way she shuffled across the room, as though even more unsure of her footing the usual. Her face seemed different as well, her eyes more alert. She strode right up to Hermione and, to her alarm, grabbed her roughly but the collar. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Riddle lift up his wand and raise his eyebrows questioningly, but she shook her head.

"What is it, professor?" Hermione asked.

Merrythought's breathing was shallow and her eyes darted to and fro as she said, "There is still time. The rise of fire and destruction will come, but there is still time. _You have been marked._"

"What do you mean?" Hermione pressed her urgently.

"You can stop it, you're the only one. You have been marked! It is not too late!"

"What—?" But the second bell rang, and as a group of fourth years began to troop in Merrythought let go of Hermione and shuffled quickly out of the room again.

Hermione look up at Riddle and saw her own questions mirrored in his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I hope everyone had a lovely holiday, whether you celebrate Christmas or Kwanzaa or possibly the birth of Cthulhu. I bring thee tidings of a new chapter. I'll admit this is a bit of a filler chapter, but it's an important one to move the plot along, and I tried to make it fun. The next two, I promise, are action-packed. Also, I don't really like it when the word mudblood starts getting thrown around, but I thought I'd get it out of the way early so everyone could move on. And it's sort of necessary for secrets to start coming out at this point because the only way I can see the beginning of progress in this relationship working out is if Hermione is drawing Riddle out Scheherazade style.

Thank you to reviewers:** PLacID, mh21, HPFanGirl01, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, NSteph2883, Dodge1989**... You are all the sprinkles on my chocolate sundae of awesome.

PS: I don't want to be bossy, but all I'm saying is if you _don't_ listen to "God's Gonna Cut You Down" by Johnny Cash while reading this chapter, you're missing out.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Quidditch trials had always caused a stir at Hogwarts, but Hermione was surprised at the amount of muttering that was taking place over dinner in the Great Hall. Unable to write off her suspicion as mere paranoia, she became really concerned when a pair of blond-haired sixth year girls began whispering behind their hands as they passed her, giggling outright.

"Would you mind telling me what exactly the problem is?" she asked loudly.

The girls gasped and subsided into quiet snorting. A moment later Riddle appeared and dropped into the chair next to Hermione's, looking abnormally grave.

"I could ask you the same question," he said. It was strange how quickly she had grown accustomed to his presence; she no longer felt her skin crawl whenever he was near.

"What are you talking about?"

"Would you mind telling _me_ what the problem is?"

"How long do you have?"

Riddle scowled. "The problem with Merrythought, Granger. What was that this morning?"

"I have no idea. And," Hermione added, ignoring the feeling that she was pushing her luck because she was so very tired of his questions, "what makes you think I would tell you if I did?"

"Tell me, Granger, what did I ever do to make you dislike me so much?"

_How long do you have?_ Hermione repeated in her head, and almost smiled. Wondering what was wrong with her, she considered Riddle. Contrary to all logic, the circumstances definitely did not point to him being responsible for the incident with the Wartcap powder and Merrythought's behavior. Not even Tom Riddle, at seventeen, was likely to be able to subvert a Hogwarts professor to such an extent. He seemed as genuinely curious about these events as she was, and Hermione though she could use his remarkable brains to help her unravel the mystery.

She sighed. "What she said, 'The rise of fire and destruction,' I've heard something like that before. In the infirmary. I couldn't see their faces, but there were two people in Madame Pom—McLaggen's office. A man and a woman. One of them said something about the rise of fire and ash."

"Could one of them have been Merrythought?"

"No, it didn't sound like her at all. It was someone much younger. A student, maybe."

Riddle frowned. "And you think—"

"It was the same person who poisoned me? Yes, it could be. Something is happening in this castle, and I can't imagine it isn't all connected. But that doesn't explain—"

"Merrythought," Riddle finished for her, nodding. It was oddly refreshing to attempt deductions with someone who did not need to be spoon-fed information piece by piece. "True. She could have been possessed."

Hermione shook her head. "Galatea Merrythought is a renowned Occlumens. There was no one near enough that classroom who could have done that to her."

"No one visible, anyway," said Riddle. He looked preoccupied, and stared right past the giggling sixth year girls who were still throwing darkly meaningful looks Hermione's way.

"Oh, what _is_ it with them?" Hermione asked, irritated. Riddle snapped back to reality and regarded Hermione with narrowed eyes.

"I think they're amused by Avery's account of his... exploits with you," he said a little too calmly.

"His—I beg your pardon—_What?_"

"Yes, he had some very interesting stories to tell about it at lunch, after the Quidditch trials. It's no wonder he made Keeper after you treated him _so well_. Though I'm surprised you warmed to him so quickly after the start of term."

He almost sounded angry. Hermione absolutely did not care to examine the possible implications of his mood, but stood, leaving her food untouched, and stormed away. With the help of Harry's map she found Avery at once by the fireplace in the Slytherin Common Room.

"Did you say the things they're repeating all around the school?" she asked.

"Yep," Avery replied, smirking at her.

"And what," Hermione demanded furiously, "made you think it would be a good idea to do a bloody stupid thing like that?"

"What?" snapped Avery, now looking as angry as she was.

"You heard me. You really thought I wouldn't be livid about this?"

"Well, sure!"

"Listen—" cried Hermione at the top of her voice, but Avery leapt to his feet and came to stand before her, his pale blue eyes filled with an ugly kind of rage.

"No _you_ listen, _Miss Granger_," he snarled. "I don't know what sort of game you're playing, but I've had it with your putting on airs, right? We've all spent a long time getting in with Tom, and I'm not about to let a silly little girl get in the way of that. You watch your step."

Hermione was speechless, her blood ice cold, as Avery walked away adding, "Watch your step, Granger, because I'll be coming after you."

* * *

"The good news," said Dumbledore when Hermione entered his office the following night, "is that I have managed to contact a Bulgarian craftsman who may be able to build you an entirely new—as you call it—time turner."

"And the bad news?"

"This craftsman, Mr. Dagmar, believes the capacities of this device will extend to travel over a few months at most."

"Brilliant," said Hermione glumly. "So I'm stuck here indefinitely."

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled. "Grim as things may appear at present, Miss Granger, I urge you not to lose hope. You are at least safe here."

"Someone tried to poison me, sir."

"I am looking into the matter," said Dumbledore gravely.

That was all, Hermione thought? She was simply supposed to take his word that everything would work itself out? Hermione tried to fend off her dark reflections by focusing on another question that had piqued her curiosity.

"Sir, have you ever thought about getting a phoenix?" she asked.

"A phoenix? Is there a reason you ask, Miss Granger?"

"Not really, sir," said Hermione hastily. Professor McGonagall had read her enough accounts of the horrific ends met by wizards who attempted to meddle in time to discourage her from attempting it. "And Professor Merrythought, sir? How well do you know her? Do you think she's trustworthy?"

"I know her quite well," said Dumbledore, not entirely answering her question.

"Right. I suppose I should be going, then. Oh, just one more thing, sir..."

* * *

The halls of Hogwarts were eerie in the nighttime without the company of Harry or Ron and the protection of the invisibility cloak, but as Hermione walked back to the dungeons she was oblivious to the shadows. She had a plan; one that, if executed properly, could solve several of her problems at once.

She was not even taken aback to see Riddle waiting for her at the foot of the stairs in the dungeons.

"Back from a moonlight stroll with Avery?" he asked sardonically.

Hermione snorted. "Hardly. Back from a moonlight lesson with Marchbanks?"

Riddle took a step forward and frowned. Hermione smiled inwardly: the Marauder's Map never lied, and she had been monitoring Riddle's activities all evening. She had kept an eye on her other housemates' movements, too, and if her calculations were correct, one of them would be approaching conveniently soon.

"Who told you that?" Riddle snapped.

"You're not the only one who pays attention in this school," Hermione replied.

He gave her a very intent look. "I guess not. We do have quite a lot in common, don't we?"

Hermione leveled an appropriately skeptical look at him.

"We do," he insisted. "We're both miles ahead of our pitifully dimwitted colleagues. We're both orphans. Neither of us is satisfied to settle for the mundane."

"Neither of us is a pureblood," she added slyly, relishing the shock her words produced. Riddle's eyes widened and he took a step closer—always closer, because even when cornered he was more predator than prey.

"How do you know that?" he asked quietly.

There was a very faint scuffling sound from around the corner which Riddle, in his distress, seemed to miss. Hermione could not openly look at the Marauder's Map now, but knew that if she did, a tiny dot labeled "Rodolphus Lestrange" would appear a few inches from hers.

"Don't worry Riddle, your secret is safe with me. Besides, you're in good company."

"You're a—half-blood too?" he said stiffly.

"Close. Try again."

He gaped at her. "A _mudblood?_"

"That's such an ugly word," she replied. She could not believe she was speaking to him this way, yet she knew she was safe. She knew from the fact that he had not yet cursed her into oblivion that she had him hooked. She had enough secrets to keep stringing him along for days, perhaps for weeks.

"So you're not related to Slughorn?"

"I didn't say that. In fact Slughorn _and_ Dumbledore take a particular interest in me. They would be very upset if, for instance, something were to happen to me."

Riddle's lip curled. "And you're telling me this _why?_"

"Because I need your help with something," she said. "And I want you to know what there is to gain by helping me: my silence."

Faster than she could have believed, his hands were around her throat, shoving her back. She did not hit the wall hard enough to hurt, but was a little disoriented. Riddle was standing over her, uncomfortably close, and she could smell the clean scent of soap on him. He smelled like winter; it was intoxicating.

"Are you sure you should be touching a mudblood?" she asked. "You could get contaminated."

"Are you _threatening_ me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'm asking for a favor."

"And what would that be?"

Grinning, she said, "I'd like you to teach me Legilimency."

* * *

"Are you mad?" Ron's voice shouted out of the mirror.

"Of course not," said Hermione patiently. "I've given it a fair bit of thought. He had to agree to teach me; he was too arrogant to admit to being a novice Legilimens himself. And Dembledore's agreed to give me private lessons of his own. I think we'll be evenly matched."

"I don't know," said Harry. "This does sound really risky, Hermione. What do you have to gain from it? And what if he finds out where you're really from?"

"He won't. He's teaching me to break into his head, not the other way around, and he won't expect me to be able to get far. I have to find out if he has something to do with all these strange incidents I've been getting into. I didn't think it was him, but I've exhausted my options. After what Merrythought did the other day..."

"Say you do get some information out of him, though," Harry said. "What makes you think he won't kill you?"

"He won't," said Hermione, sounding more confident than she felt.

"Hermione," said Ron in a pained voice, "this is _You-Know-Who_ we're talking about."

"It's not really, though," she replied. "Not yet. It's Tom Riddle. He's got one horcrux at _most_. He's _seventeen_. And if he wanted to harm me he would have done it already. He knows he needs me for information, too. I have to do _something,_" Hermione added. "I can't stand just _being _here, away from you all, do you understand?"

There was a small grumbling sound from Ron, but Harry said, "Actually, I have something that might help move all that along."

There was a scuffling noise, followed by another unhappy grunt from Ron, and then—

"Granger."

"... _Malfoy?_"

"Yeah, yeah, we're all very surprised," came the unmistakable voice of Draco Malfoy. All the drawling arrogance had gone out of it, Hermione was surprised to hear: he sounded tired. "Can we move this along?"

"What is this?" said Hermione.

"A bloody bad idea is what it is," said Ron.

"I don't like this any more than you do, all right Weasel King? But I don't like being indebted to you lot either."

"So when I asked—" Harry began.

"When Potter barged into my house and _demanded_," Malfoy cut in.

"Right," said Harry. "So when I asked Malfoy if he might be able to help, he said he had something."

"And I figure if I do this we're square, yeah?"

"You—you have a time turner?" Hermione asked, hope swelling in her chest.

"Of course," said Malfoy in a superior tone. "Been in the family vaults for decades. We moved it there during—during the war because... Well, it's under the drawing room now."

"The same place I had Ron's dad raid in sixth year," said Harry. "That's how I got the idea."

"And I was going to take it," Ron added, "and come find you."

"No," said Hermione at once. She heard Malfoy snicker and Ron sputter indignantly. "Time turners aren't designed for such long distance travel, Ron. You'd just end up stuck back here with me."

"What if I don't care?"

"_Think,_ Weasley," said Malfoy impatiently. "How would you explain another new student without a past arriving at Hogwarts late for the start of term?"

"We wouldn't have to stay at Hogwarts, we could go—"

"No," Hermione repeated firmly. "There's something going on in this castle, and it's important that I find out what it is. I'm sorry, Ron, but Malfoy's right. You lot concentrate on finding a way to enhance the time turner you've got."

"We will, don't worry," said Harry.

"I'm not worried, Harry," she replied. "I trust you."

* * *

_A mudblood._

_ I daresay Avery will regret spreading word of his exploits around the school now. It would seem Lestrange overheard something of my conversation with Granger, and hasn't lost any time telling everyone the story. My closest associates know of my ancestry, of course, and Lestrange wasn't stupid enough to include_ that _in his gossip. It wouldn't do for word to get out about my... about the Riddles._

_ I wonder if Granger might have planned it this way. A mudblood, but an undeniably talented one. Avery was starting to raise bad sentiment against her, but now he's completely discredited. Of course, so is she. But I don't think she cares. Besides, she's still of use to me if I'm going to discover what she's hiding. Under my protection she'll receive more tolerance than he will._

_ It's a bit of a relief, though._

_ Because Avery's story—God he_ is _depraved—and the things he said about Granger... About how her skin tasted and the sounds she made... The thought of him with her made me see red. I could feel a curse building inside me, and if we hadn't been in the middle of a crowded corridor I don't know what I would have done._

_ But she's filth, isn't she? There's no call to want to rip Avery to pieces for mucking around with a mudblood. Was what he said even true? I don't think it was. She wouldn't... Anyway it's not my concern what she does on her own time. I was wrong to think she could someday join my ranks, with a background like hers._

_ There's nothing out of the ordinary with Merrythought that I can discover. How did Granger—how did the mudblood know I was taking lessons with her (the_ audacity _of Granger, maneuvering me into offering her Legilimency lessons)? Could they be working together?_

_ Avery_ must _have been lying._

—_R _


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** 'Tis the last day of the year and am I the only one thoroughly disappointed by the lack of apocalypse? Total letdown... You guys, I keep updating sooner than intended, but you've all been leaving such nice and lovely reviews, I can't help it! Jeez, can't you control yourselves? JUST KIDDING I LOVE YOU ALL: **NSteph2883, mh21, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, DijaLi, brighteyes2889, 372259, wintersalad, Dodge1989**... Aaaaaand anyone who's reviewed "Requirement" or "Tabula Rasa" thanks as well, I'm no longer doing A/N's on those so I'll give you a shoutout here... I know you guys like to read Tom's diary entries and I'm sorry this one is so short, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. Next chapter's will be longer. Um and guys, this chapter is sort of where the fun begins, so I hope you like it. I had originally intended for this fic to be 12 chapters but these scenes keep getting away from me and now I feel like it might be 15-20 instead. Sorry, not really sorry. By the way, a few of you mentioned Draco in the reviews... I'm glad you enjoyed his cameo. Fear not though, it's not like I'm trying to set up a love triangle or anything. But you'll see *evil steepling of fingers* Cheers!

**EDIT:** Wow how could I forget it's Tom Riddle's birthday today?! Happy birthday Tom! I suggest we all celebrate by going batshit insane and murdering thousands of innocents. Or... you know... something slightly less drastic. You decide.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"Open your eyes," said Riddle.

Hermione, who'd had no intention of following him blind to an undisclosed location and had been casting _Homenum Revelio_ every five steps, opened her eyes and was unsurprised to find herself in the forbidden forest, a few hundred yards away from the path that would someday lead to Grawp's hollow.

"The forest?" she said. "Is that really the best you can do?"

"Well since it's become clear we're not free of eavesdroppers anywhere in the castle, where else would you suggest?" said Riddle contemptuously. There had been a marked change in his attitude towards her since she had revealed her blood status, which did not surprise her in the slightest. In fact she had expected much worse. Her plan had gone almost too smoothly to be believed. Avery was a laughing stock, while she, because of her tenuous connection to Riddle, was largely ignored. An improvement, overall.

"I don't know," she said absentmindedly, looking for a tree stump to sit on. "The Room of Requirement? The seventh floor isn't nearly as far as the forest."

"The what?"

_Oh no... _"Never mind," said Hermione hurriedly."Let's, er, begin."

Riddle rolled his eyes at her search for a seat and waved his wand, causing a padded armchair to appear. After she took a seat he bent down and placed one hand on either side of her face. Her skin burned where he touched it, and she felt her cheeks going traitorously red. It was a faintly familiar feeling, almost but not quite painful. But it was so much stronger than she had ever felt it before, like a sickness or a madness that she refused, categorically, to put a name to.

"You're going to need to concentrate," said Riddle. "It'll be sort of like the patronuses. You have to let your magic take charge. _If_," he added with a sneer, "you can do that."

"I'm crushed by your wit," Hermione retorted. "Anything else?"

"Breathe deeply, and project yourself outward. Using the eyes as a reference point usually helps."

Unbeknownst to Harry, Hermione had begun trying her hand at Occlumency in fifth year at the same time as he had. She had gotten the chance to put her skills into practice during her lesson with Dumbledore the day before and had found the theory surrounding Legilimency quite similar. It was a little difficult, however, to concentrate with Riddle's eyes boring into hers. She took a deep breath...

And was met with a solid, blank wall.

"Are you blocking me?" she asked, frowning.

Riddle smirked. "Very mildly. I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."

Her competitive nature piqued, Hermione refocused her attention and pushed her thoughts outward with all her might. Her mind was straining so hard she could feel a splitting headache coming on. Surely she had to be close. Yet still nothing happened.

Riddle sighed impatiently. He took her hands in his and brought them up to cup his face, drawing her to her feet.

"You have to want it, Granger," he hissed.

She swallowed. "I'm trying."

"Are you? Empty your mind. Focus."

"I can't do that if you're distracting me!"

"That's an excuse. Do it, mudblood."

Goaded past endurance, Hermione's blood boiled and she emptied her mind completely, leaving nothing but a unilateral desire to prove him wrong. With a mighty effort she pushed her consciousness out at him, and suddenly she was falling through his eyes into a flood of rushing images.

A shabby, greyish orphanage filled with hollow-eyed children being marched into a room lined with minuscule beds... A young, dark haired boy crouching in a field, concealed by tall grass and talking to a hissing garden snake... The same dark haired boy, much older, entering a girls' lavatory and tracing the contours of a snake carved into one of the faucets...

"OUT!"

Hermione was pushed outward violently, back into her own body, and felt a dizzying lurch as though she had missed a step going down a staircase. Riddle looked thunderous. She could see at once that he had not expected her to get so far. Her hands had clenched his with the shock of what she had seen, and she had unknowingly pulled him right up close to her face. He was less than an inch away, breathing heavily, practically crackling with rage. But he did not move away. He seemed almost as dazed as she was, and he did not move a muscle. There was a dull ache somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach that was frightening in its intensity, and it overrode the voice in her head that screamed that she should leap back at once before he did something terrible, something worse than cursing her, something like moving closer. He was moving closer.

"Who goes there?"

Hermione stumbled back and peered through the trees at a sight both familiar and jarringly wrong. The torso of a young boy with the palomino body of a horse. Hermione was so stunned that she dropped her hands at her sides and let out a startled laugh.

Riddle looked scandalized. "What the hell are you—?"

"Shh!" hissed Hermione as a second and third centaur appeared.

"The humans trespass on our lands," said the third centaur with a fierce pride and arrogance she recognized. "They bring their dark magic here to throw it in our faces."

Riddle whipped around and—surprise, surprise—raised his wand. Rolling her eyes, Hermione pushed his arm aside, ignoring a nagging feeling that he would tear her arm off for it. The first, blue eyed centaur glowered.

"You raise your wand against us, human?"

He was young, so young. Hermione stepped forward.

"Firenze?" she said tentatively. "Bane? Ronan?"

The centaurs tapped their feet restlessly and Riddle shot her an appraising look, as though deciding whether to let her proceed. He looked utterly devoid of fear, relaxed even, and Hermione simply could not help but admire his nerve. But this time she was in control.

"We come in friendship," she told the centaurs. "We weren't practicing dark magic, and we meant no disrespect. Look to the stars to see if I'm telling the truth, if you don't believe me."

"The female names us," said Bane darkly. "The school sets spies on us in our own territory."

"She's wise," Firenze countered. "I do not think she means us any harm."

Bane snorted. "But the male carries magic of the blackest kind."

"Let us return to the elders to ask for council."

No," shouted Bane. "We make an example of them!"

"Please," cried Hermione. "We don't mean you any harm. We promise never to return. Firenze, you can believe me. You can trust me."

Firenze placed a hand on Bane's shoulder and slowly, slowly, the centaurs began to back away. Hermione really thought, for a moment, that would be the end of it. Until Riddle laughed.

It was an invigorating sound but Hermione's heart sank. He was provoking the centaurs, who took the bait at once. In an instant Ronan had charged Riddle while Bane roared his encouragement. And what happened next was a spectacle Hermione would never forget.

Tom Riddle smiled a wild, exhilarated smile and bent down toward a nearby tree trunk. Hermione could not believe her eyes as she saw him set _down_ his wand. Then, abruptly, Ronan stopped mid-charge and pitched forward, writhing on the ground and making choking noises in the back of his throat.

"What—?" Hermione began, but as Riddle's exhilarated smile grew wider she understood. He was showing off; having fun.

With a simple look from Riddle Ronan went rigid and his eyes bulged. Bane, unfortunately, had managed to gallop around the copse of trees and seized Hermione from behind, wrapping his arm around her throat. Riddle spun around and raised his hand: Bane released Hermione as if burned and was propelled upward, spinning grotesquely in mid-air. Firenze howled and started to charge.

"Stop!" Hermione shouted, but Riddle ignored her. His power was staggering, awe-inspiring, a terror to behold. And now Firenze, too, was howling in pain. The forest was filled with screams.

"_Impedimenta!_" she yelled, but Riddle had already picked up his wand and blocked her effortlessly.

She had no choice. There was nothing else she could do.

"Stop!" she repeated. "Unless you want Albus Dumbledore to know what you did to Morfin Gaunt and the Riddles, stop it _now!_"

Hermione could have sworn that the temperature in the forest dropped by ten degrees. The centaurs fell to the ground in an inanimate heap, and one could have heard a twig snap from a mile away. Then, over the silence rose the deep, rumbling sound of a hundred hooves thundering against the ground: the centaurs were sending reinforcements.

"I can cast a patronus right now," said Hermione, "and have a message sent to the castle before you have time to think up a curse. Believe me."

"And what," spat Riddle, incandescent with rage, "do you suggest we do now?"

Hermione glanced at Firenze. He was evidently still breathing.

"Run," she murmured.

They ran. Over streams and fallen branches, through brambles that tore at their clothes, they ran, until Hermione's lungs were on fire and she felt as though she were flying. Curiously, even as a part of her mind attempted to calculate how much damage her revelation to Riddle might have done, another part was marveling at the fact that she had _missed_ this. She had been living one breathless adventure after another for so many years that the excitement had become almost second nature to her.

At last they broke through the trees into the courtyard and Hermione braced herself for Riddle's fury to break. Gasping for breath, hands on knees, she cringed and fumbled through her pocket for her wand.

And Riddle simply walked past her without looking back, disappearing quietly into the night.

* * *

_This state of affairs is unacceptable, and I'm going to put a stop to it. In short order._

—_R _

* * *

Hermione no longer concerned herself with the stares she received upon entering the common room. As she passed the customary group of seventh-years gathered by the fireplace that evening after coming up from dinner, however, her appearance elicited such a wave of gasps that she became concerned for the sanity of her housemates. Avery's eyes in particular followed her all the way to her dormitory door, looking at once incredulous and scathing. Behind him, Dolohov pointed at the door, then at Hermione, and back again.

This might have been owing to the fact that Tom Riddle was leaning against her dormitory doorframe. The door itself was open.

"Get away from me," said Hermione as he moved to bar her passage.

"Manners, Granger."

Hermione was tempted to push past him until he raised his hand and twitched the small gilded mirror held in it... _The gilded mirror!_

"Give that back!" Hermione bit out, making a panicked swipe for the mirror which Riddle easily dodged. Glancing at the curious seventh-years assembled nearby, she roared in frustration, pushed Riddle into her room, and closed the door behind her for good measure. She could only imagine what the Slytherins might think was happening. Pushing aside the unsettling thought, Hermione threw a surreptitious look at the drawer in her bedside table where she kept her beaded bag. She had taken to keeping it locked with an enchantment that could not be broken by _Alohomora_ ever since she had awoken to find Riddle sitting in her armchair, and was relieved to see it safely closed. Unfortunately in the tension leading up to her excursion into the forest she had made the mistake of leaving her mirror, of all things, lying around.

"Interesting contraption, this," said Riddle, who had the audacity to look as handsome and polite and unruffled as ever when she herself was shaken to the core.

"What have you done to it?"

"Not a thing, I swear. Had an interesting conversation with a friend of yours, though. He spoke through this, looking for you."

Hermione closed her eyes. There it was: she had spoiled everything, _everything_. If Tom Riddle knew about Harry Potter _now_, then all was lost.

"Said some interesting things about Dumbledore and a portrait," Riddle continued. "And when I introduced myself he _screamed._"

"Wait." Hermione frowned. "Who did you talk to?"

"Someone named Malfoy," said Riddle contemptuously, and Hermione felt a wave of relief so powerful it made her lightheaded. "So is this how you communicate with your cronies, Granger? I'm not sure you have a future as a secret agent."

Now that her fear had evaporated Hermione was able to answer with equal contempt.

"You're really still going to interrogate me after what just happened?" she said. "Do you want everyone to know how much you like your dear old, _dead_ Muggle dad?"

It was remarkable how Riddle's face did not change, did not move a muscle, and yet the whole room filled with an aura of dread.

"A lot of things don't add up about you," said Riddle in a voice smooth as butter. "A mudblood Slytherin who speaks Parseltongue and associates with Dumbledore. A foreign student whose education for the past six years has been patchy at best, yet who has detailed knowledge of this school and its occupants; the creatures in the forbidden forest; _my_ comings and goings. You, Granger, are too intelligent for your own good."

He set the mirror down on her pillow.

"So it strikes me that a smart girl like you _has_ to know that I could _make_ you tell me everything I want to know. There are so many ways..."

"And I'm sure _you _know what would happen to you if Dumbledore got wind that I had been harmed."

Riddle's slow smile was poisonous; really, there was no other way to put it. "Just because I can't touch you doesn't mean I can't break you. Or have you forgotten what you just witnessed with your friends the centaurs?"

"How could I forget that? It was the most awful thing I've seen in a long time. It made me sick."

"Drop the pretense, it doesn't suit you."

"Caring doesn't have to be a pretense for everyone just because it is for you."

"Then I suppose you'll have something to say about this: answer my questions or prepare to say goodbye to your dear friend—what was his name—Ron, was it?"

"How—?" Hermione's throat was painfully dry.

"You talk in your sleep. It's quite _cute_, if I do say so."

Laughing at Riddle was becoming a dangerous habit of hers, but Hermione could not help herself. The laughter bubbled to her lips and the still mask of his face contorted into something painfully twisted.

"That's what you've got up your sleeve?" Hermione chortled. "Believe me, there is nothing, as of this moment, that you can do to Ron. Try all you want."

Riddle stood up and looked at her very intently for a very long time. It took all Hermione's self control not to back away.

"Come into Hogsmead with me," he said at last.

There was a pause, in which Hermione was sure she had heard him incorrectly.

"I'm sorry?"

"The second weekend in October. It's a Hogsmead weekend."

"Yes I—I know that."

"I'm asking you to accompany me."

"_Why?_"

His eyes narrowed. "It's a yes or no answer, Hermione."

It was surreal, all too surreal to be having this conversation with him. Of all the people in wide world, how could it be that she was here with him, constantly having to remind herself of who Tom Riddle really was when it would have been easy to let his dark, insistent eyes sway her as they had done so many others?

"No," she said quietly.

Riddle sighed. "You don't mean that. You want to say yes, it's written all over your face."

"Your arrogance is incredible. After what you did to Firenze and the others, why would I want to go anywhere with you?"

"Because." He drew closer; she backed away until her fingers rested on the doorknob, but did not turn it. "There's something about you that _needs _to take on the impossible. You have steel in your eyes, Hermione. I wouldn't be wasting my time here if you didn't."

"You're a terrific liar. It's unnerving, really. And what you really want is to get me away from Dumbledore's watch."

"God, but you're stubborn," Riddle whispered, moving even nearer and towering over her with his hands propped against the door above her head. His ring tapped against the wood of the door frame, and something niggled at the back of her mind.

"I don't—"

"Dammit, Hermione, just say it," he insisted, filling her whole world with the lean lines of his shoulders, the movement of his chest as he breathed, the smell of his skin. "Say it, say yes, just _say it._"

"Yes," said Hermione breathlessly.

* * *

"To what do I owe this very late call, Miss Granger?" asked Dumbledore sharply after Hermione had hammered on his door for a full five minutes.

"I need to talk to the Sorting Hat!" said Hermione urgently.

"Much as I too enjoy the occasional night-time chat with talking headwear," Dumbledore replied, "your request might be better put to Headmaster Dippet."

Hermione gave an impatient huff. "I think you can see why I came to you, sir."

Dumbledore gave her his inscrutable, x-raying gaze and smiled a little.

"Very well," he said. "Wait here, please."

He left, and in the silence Hermione tried (and failed) not to think of the scene that had just transpired between herself and Riddle. There had been a moment, just after she had said yes, when a light like a raw flame had flared deep in his eyes. She had seen that light before. Once in Viktor's eyes when they had been talking, just talking, in a secluded part of the grounds—the fierce way he had kissed her then had scared her a little, and she had made up some excuse to return to the castle. With Ron, too, it was often the same before... but she could not think about that. And once, just once at the Yule Ball in her fourth year, she had caught Draco Malfoy looking at her that way from a secluded part of the Hall. It had startled her so much that she had stared right back until he had seen her looking and immediately rearranged his expression into a sneer.

The difference was that in Riddle's eyes the flame was iridescent, all-consuming, a thousand times stronger. It was exactly the kind of thing she did not wish to see, because it betrayed a depth of feeling she did not like to believe he possessed. Passion, talent... those were the things that had attracted her to Viktor when Ron had so obviously been unwilling to admit his feelings for her without a push in the right direction.

"Here we are," said Dumbledore, returning with the Hat and its rough old wooden stool. "I'll give you some privacy, shall I?"

As he disappeared through a side door Hermione approached the Hat. It was with some trepidation that Hermione put it on and sat on the stool, waiting.

_Guilty conscience, Granger?_ said the Hat in her head.

_What? No, no, I need to ask you something._

_Ask away, then, girl, and perhaps I'll answer._

Hermione took a deep breath. _You knew the founders, didn't you? I mean, they're a part of you and you were a part of them..._

_It sounds as though you have already answered your own question,_ said the Hat, and Hermione sniffed impatiently. Why had they made it so maddeningly snide?

_Yes,_ she persisted, _but what I really want to know is whether Slytherin ever had any regrets. I mean, when he was dying, for example, did he ever try to make amends with the others?_

_The founder of Slytherin house was staunch in his beliefs to his dying breath,_ replied the Hat. His dying breath... Did the Hat know what she was planning?

_But after his death?_ she asked hopefully.

_None can tell the boundless thoughts of the dead,_ said the Hat, and left it at that.

Barely a minute after she had taken the hat off and started to pace the office pondering its words, Dumbledore returned.

"Your interview was, I take it, a success?" he asked, taking in the slight frown lining Hermione's brow that meant she was deep in thought.

"I suppose," said Hermione. "Can I ask you something, sir?"

Dumbledore inclined his head.

"In the future, you see, I know you quite well. Professor Slughorn and Moody too, and quite a few others. Tom Riddle as well. But none of you ever let on for a second that you'd met me all this time ago, for all the years we knew each other. It seems almost impossible."

"As to the mysteries of the future, I fear I can shed little light for you," said Dumbledore gravely. He appeared to have nothing more to say, but paused expectantly to allow Hermione to go on.

"Well, it seems to me, in light of all that," Hermione went on haltingly, "that the things I do here have no effect on the future. Our future. Which is mad on the face of it. So... do you think it's possible to—I mean, if someone were to try to affect events in the past, they wouldn't really be _changing_ anything, since whatever they did would already have happened. But no one has ever been recorded as traveling more than a few weeks in time, have they? So how can we know if... Well, perhaps people _have_ changed time, but no one ever knew it, of course, because the different versions of events would have erased the old ones. The only person who would be affected would be the one who had brought about the change, or else they never would have needed to go back in the first place. So it's—isn't it possible, in fact, that time could be changed?"

Dumbledore looked at her for a long time before replying. Was it just her imagination, or did he look sad?

"I think," he said at last, "that the consequences for the person effecting the change in this hypothetical scenario of yours would be almost too ghastly to consider."

"But what if it was worth it?"

"Best to say no more about it just now, I think," said Dumbledore, seeing her politely but firmly out of his office. "Put your mind to other things, Miss Granger."

But her mind, of course, had its own ideas.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Does ANYBODY know a spell to make my winter semester disappear? Sirisuly, guys, I'm taking some graduate classes this year because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment and it's like... school hasn't even started up again yet and I'm already annoyed about it. Never fear though, I still have the next four chapters of this fic written out (shorthand! Ha-ha!) so updates won't be slowing down yet. As always a huge thanks to my faithful reviewers: **brighteyes2889, mh21, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, Dat anon, 372259, Kou Shun'u, Dodge1989, and littledeannasgotbigblueeyes** (sorry I missed you back when I did my shoutouts for chapter 3!) Btw, this is unrelated, but has anybody checked out Muggle Hustle on twitter? That dude is hilarious!

To the anon who mentioned checking for updates often: I know my updates are pretty unpredictable because I'm ridiculously disorganized. I do try to make it at least a weekly thing. Would it be better if I set a specific day of the week and always updated then? I don't mind either way... Anyway thanks for the review!

My soundtrack recommendation for this chapter: "Circus" by Hannah Georgas. Cheers!

**CHAPTER SIX**

_My contact through Mr. Burke informs me that the situation in the Slavic territories is escalating at a dangerous rate. Once my schooling is finished and I've secured the Defense Against the Dark Arts post I'll make short work of ending Grindelwald's pathetic little reign. It continues to surprise me that Dumbledore hasn't swooped in to save the day. He's a conniving old bastard but he loves his mudbloods, there's no doubt about it._

_What is it about her that throws me so off track? Her, Granger, the mudblood I mean. She has a peculiar sort of beauty that creeps up on you quietly until one day you can't help but notice it, incessantly. But there are lots of pretty, useless girls at this school._

_She's not useless, that's certain. Wildly talented in fact, which is refreshing, if baffling in someone of her birth. Though she's not nearly any match for me, of course. And she knows things she shouldn't. What is it about her strange combination of gentleness and forbidden knowledge that provokes me to want to... She got sentimental about_ centaurs, _for Merlin's sake. That shouldn't have inspired anything in me but disgust._

_It did, though. I'm revolted by the idea that... Is it my genetics, the shameful stain of my father (my filthy father who had the audacity to pass on his face to me), some primitive part of me reaching out to her because I know her true heritage? The difference being my own strain of the noblest blood remaining in this world. Purer than any other. No, there is no excuse for the revolting-_

_But I'm not really revolted, am I? No, I find myself wondering what it would be like to touch her _that _way, to find out of her skin is as soft and as—_

_Something has taken hold of me._

_It ends next week, in Hogsmead, when no one—not Dumbledore, not Slughorn, certainly not Avery—will be there to stand in the way._

—_R_

* * *

The morning of the year's first Hogsmead visit dawned cold and bright, the vivid sunlight streaming through the windows and illuminating the school as it awoke filled with anticipation. Hermione shared no part of her classmates' enthusiasm. She lay in bed long after the rest of the Slytherins had gone up to the Great Hall, thinking over her conversation of the previous night with Ginny.

"Are you there?" Ginny's voice had called out of the mirror while Hermione was going through her nightly wrestling match with her hairbrush.

"Hi," she had said, her voice a little guarded. Her previous attempts to explain to her friends why she was going through with her Hogsmead visit with Riddle had not gone well.

"Ron will cool down, Hermione. Give him time."

"But he's not there now?"

Ginny sounded uneasy. "He and Harry had a sort of row. It started about a fortnight ago, actually, when Malfoy turned up rambling that Riddle was in your room. He—Malfoy—made a... comment that didn't sit well with Ron. They almost came to dueling, only Harry stopped them. And when you told us about your, you know, appointment with Riddle in Hogsmead, Ron tried to take the time turner off Malfoy. I guess he thought he would just get to you and figure out the rest later. Malfoy wasn't having it, and Harry took his side. Told Ron you knew what you were doing and you'd never forgive him if he got himself caught in the past with you where he wouldn't be any use to anyone. It was sort of awful how they looked at each other."

Hermione had flinched at the thought of what her actions were doing to her friends. But what else could she do?

"Listen, Ginny—"

"There's no need to explain," Ginny had interrupted. "I do still think you're a bit mad. I mean, you said yourself he has to be doing this to get you away from Dumbledore. But if there's anyone I've learned we can trust with a mad scheme, it's you."

Ginny had given a cough that sounded suspiciously like "SPEW," and they had both laughed, though it was a strained and short-lived laughter. Hermione had forgotten how pleasant the company of other girls could be on occasion.

"Hermione," Ginny had said suddenly, sobering up. "Be careful."

"What do you mean?" Hermione had asked cautiously.

"Tom Riddle is dangerous. Not just because of what he became. He's magnetic and likeable and genuinely charming. Trust me, I remember. His charm is the most treacherous thing about him. It would be easy to get _caught up_ in what you're trying to do. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

A silence heavy with things unsaid had stretched between them.

"Don't worry about me," Hermione had told Ginny, though there had rarely been more cause to worry.

At present she rose in the perpetual semi-darkness of the dungeons and, out of some perverse desire to provoke Riddle as much as possible, dressed in the most patently Muggle clothes she could find in her beaded bag. Disregarding the dirty looks shot at her knitted sweater and blue jeans, she strode into the entrance hall alone to look for Riddle...

Who was already there, waiting for her and looking almost painfully handsome in a fur-lined cloak. His eyebrows shot up when he took in her apparel, but he gave no other indication of disapproval. Hermione noticed a great many pairs of eyes, most of them belonging to girls, following them resentfully out the oak front doors.

"Have you been practicing?" Riddle asked conversationally as they passed the gates side by side and turned onto the path that led up to Hogsmead village. Hermione nodded. They had indeed been continuing their Legilimency sessions for the last three weeks, relatively without incident, because Hermione had made a concerted effort not to break through Riddle's defenses again. She had also been redoubling her efforts in her secret lessons with Dumbledore. Soon, she thought she would be able to take him by surprise; to pick whatever thoughts she wanted out of his head. Soon, but not yet.

"Should I be concerned by your silence?" Riddle persisted.

"No. I'm just taking in the scenery, I suppose. I've never seen Hogsmead before."

"I'm sure," said Riddle. His serious expression twitched momentarily into a faint smile as they approached Hogsmead station. It was such a natural, simple thing that Hermione could not help but feel curious.

"What is it?" she asked, Ginny's voice echoing in her head.

_It would be easy to get caught up..._

"This is the place where last year's Head Girl lost her badge," he told her, a gleam of reminiscence in his eye. "Some of the boys still call that day 'The Fall of Umbridge.' "

Hermione made a choking noise. "I—I'm sorry. Umbridge? _Dolores_ Umbridge?"

"Miserable little bitch." Riddle nodded, then glanced at Hermione. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger, please excuse my language."

It was odd how the era she had landed in kept hitting Hermione from unexpected angles: she could not remember anyone ever apologizing for swearing in front of her. She waved him away impatiently.

"What happened with Umbridge?"

"Another one of your mysterious acquaintances?" said Riddle, and Hermione snorted. "Sufficed to say she meddled in things best left alone."

"And you had nothing to do with that, of course."

"Of course."

There was a pause, then Hermione said quietly, "She _was_ a miserable bitch."

She laughed, startled by her own audacity, and by the sound escaping her lips. For the first time in weeks—perhaps months—her laughter was not defiant, forced, or strained. It rippled out from her head to her toes until she felt almost giddy.

_It would be easy..._

"Here we are," said Riddle when they had arrived in the village.

It was smaller than Hermione remembered, and also quieter. The familiar outline of the Three Broomsticks was missing, though Honeydukes and Zonko's stood out bright and familiar against the village's everlasting layer of fine powdered snow. One building in particular drew her eye. Yes, it would do quite nicely for what she had in mind.

"How about we visit the Shrieking Shack first?" she suggested.

"The what?" Riddle looked in the direction she was pointing. "Oh, the old Valmount property. That's a funny name for it. Yes, all right, let's go there."

Cursing herself for forgetting that the origin of the Shack's haunting myth lay with Lupin, Hermione followed Riddle to the outskirts of the fence along the property. Up close it did not look nearly as dilapidated as she knew it. In fact it looked positively quaint.

"Shall we go inside?" she suggested.

"It's boarded up," Riddle pointed out.

"So we'll apparate. You've passed your test, I'm sure?"

He nodded curtly. "You know, as Head Boy I should really be discouraging this kind of behaviour."

Hermione ignored him and turned into the crushing sensation of apparition, coming out on the inside of the Shack. It was dusty but otherwise presentable. A moment later Riddle materialized at her side. As soon as he had got his bearings he drew his wand and made a quick diagonal slash through the air.

"What—?" Hermione began, but she thought she knew. "Anti-disapparition charm?"

"A little insurance," said Riddle. "You brought us here, so you must know what's coming. I imagine you have a plan of your own. But here's some news for you: Dumbledore and your dear uncle Slughorn rarely made the trip out to Hogsmead. None of the teachers do. It's just you and me."

"You'd better get on with it, then."

Riddle's wand was still held aloft. Hermione fixed it with a wary eye as it remained immobile, keeping her fingers crossed behind her back. Incredibly, Riddle seemed to be losing his nerve. Her plan thus far was going off without a hitch.

"Or maybe," she continued as sarcastically as she dared, "you can unleash a basilisk on your fellow students, but you consider torturing a _girl _above your dignity."

The flash of incredulity in his eyes told her that she was still on the right track.

"I know things, Riddle," she said, reminding herself irresistibly of Harry and feeling the sad pang of his absence in her chest. "I know a lot of important things. Want to hear some? Because if you make the mistake of killing me, or incapacitating me somehow, I promise you won't have done yourself any favors."

Riddle said nothing, but watched her, his rage an almost tangible presence in the room.

"I know about your most _famous_ ancestor, for example."

"Avery's got a big mouth," Riddle bit out.

"No, it's nothing to do with him. Do you want to see what I'm talking about?"

When he did not respond Hermione reached out and took his hands in hers, making sure to touch her palm to the surface of his ring. Riddle flinched at the contact.

"What—?"

"Shut up," Hermione scolded.

Then she began to concentrate, steadily, fiercely. She turned his hands over in hers then back again, three times, all the while visualizing her objective.

If she'd had any dead friends or relatives, they would have been the ones the resurrection stone brought her. But her family and friends were not dead; they had yet to be born. So instead the stone showed her the thing she craved most to see at the time.

A tall, bearded wizard dressed in majestic emerald robes stepped forth from a shadowy corner of the room, and Hermione burned with triumph. He looked every bit the great leader, magician, and orator his portraits in the halls of Hogwarts showed. Riddle was transfixed; not afraid, never that, but mesmerized.

"You're familiar with Salazar Slytherin, I presume?" said Hermione pleasantly.

Slytherin descended on an immobile Riddle, his eyes ablaze with a thousand years of knowledge.

"You have set yourself a stony path, boy!" he boomed in a voice that seemed to fill not only the confines of the room but the inside of Hermione's head. "Tread carefully."

"Are—are you real?" said Riddle breathlessly.

"A fool's question! Are you a fool, boy?"

Riddle seemed unable to answer.

"I see what lies inside your heart, boy!" Slytherin roared. "It is a stain of dishonor that besmirches wizardkind."

Riddle threw a furtive, guilty look in Hermione's direction and Slytherin let out an impatient bellow. More substantial than a ghost yet distinctly less than alive, he still managed to seem the most threatening presence in their midst.

"Not _her,_" he exploded. "I speak of the plot, the secret desire that consumes you! Your designs on your world are futile, as once were mine. We are not to achieve greatness by tearing down the unworthy but by educating the chosen few who may lead us to victory. Fate will play the part of weeding out the weak."

Riddle blinked. "But—"

"She may be impure," interrupted Slytherin, now looking at Hermione, who felt as though a megawatt lantern had been trained on her, "but only a fool would venture to call her weak. Think on your sins, boy!"

Riddle seemed to come to himself a little at this, and stood tall so that he was almost on level with Slytherin.

"What is this?" he asked in a commanding voice. "Is it some sort of trick?"

Slytherin looked at Hermione again. "I believe the time has come for me to farewell. Mind you do not waste my words, boy. Think on your sins!"

It looked as though Riddle was about to protest, but Hermione let go of his hands and the connection was broken. Slytherin vanished as abruptly as if he had never been there.

In the ringing silence that followed Hermione caught her breath, dazzled by what she had accomplished. She felt winded, as though she had just run a mile through heavy sand, and thought that perhaps the effort expanded to draw up Salazar Slytherin had drained her of much of her energy.

"What have you done?" said Riddle tonelessly after what felt like several minutes.

"I'm sorry?"

"What have you done," he repeated through gritted teeth, "to me? Tell me. Was it some sort of potion? I know Slughorn had a whole vat of the stuff to show the sixth-years. What did you give me? _What did you do to me?_"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"I'm talking about you getting inside my head! You're rubbish at Legilimency so _what is it?_ Why do I want to—every time I look at you... Worse every day, every time you pull a stunt like this. Why do I want to—"

He broke off, perfectly still and contained yet brimming over with rage. Hermione did not understand what was happening. She had expected scorn, or flat out denial of the lesson imparted by Slytherin. At worse, she had feared Slytherin might turn up sympathetic to Riddle, thereby crushing her carefully orchestrated plan flat. What she had not counted on was this maddened sort of frenzy of Riddle's. He looked practically unhinged.

"Why do you want to _what?_" she pressed curiously.

There was no split second, no space of time in which Riddle moved. One moment they were standing feet apart, and the next Hermione realized in a dazed sort of way that he had simply apparated the distance between them so that he stood above her with one hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back so that she was looking up at him. There was something incongruous about that, but she could not think what it was; her brain had jammed. She ought to have wanted to scream and rip herself away, but it was really remarkable what the contact from his hand did to her skin.

Hermione shivered. It was the sort of sensation that one could not help but accept and marvel at because of the way it tore down the world all around and built it back up in a more symmetrical way. A delicious abandon that could not possibly be the product of chance or some dark mistake. And how could she think it might be wrong when it had so obviously been orchestrated to the most minute detail, like the point of crescendo in a symphony, to make her skin burn and her blood sing in her veins?

"What I want," Riddle said very close to her ear, "is to have my mouth on every part of your body. To taste you. I want to make you beg for me." He tugged her head further back and traced a line down her neck with one long finger. "I want to take you here on the floor like an animal, until you can't help but scream my name. That's what I want."

There was no more Hogsmead, no more Shrieking Shack, no more Salazar Slytherin. The only thing Hermione knew just then was that he was Tom Riddle, and she didn't want him not to. He was _Tom Riddle_, and she _didn't_ want him not to.

But she did, she did, she did. She had to.

"Get away from me," she heard herself say, with so little conviction it was almost laughable.

He growled low in his throat at her words. The sound was equal parts desperate and guttural and pleading and exasperated. Something was happening to him, to them...

Something else entirely was happening, Hermione noted in the part of her mind that was always keenly listening and observing and cataloging. They had been too absorbed in their... confrontation to notice it. Now that she saw what it was her first, fleeting reaction was dawning wonder that she should end up partaking in yet another facet of the history of the place she thought she had grown to know.

The house was in flames around them.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Chapter seven, the magic number! Not like _that_, you perverts (just kidding you're all lovely people)... Hehehe. As I was advised by one lovely reviewer that _death_ was imminent if I didn't update soon, I'm uploading this a day early. The poem recited towards the end is in French because I feel like Salazar Slytherin would have come from one of those rich snooty families who were very learned and studied literature and completely missed the point, using it to justify the divine right of the higher classes, all that garbage. So I felt a foreign language was appropriate, and my Latin sucks. I've added a translation at the end, but bear in mind I wrote it in like five minutes and I am NOT a poet by any means so... feel free to tell me how cringe-worthy you found it in the reviews!

Thanks a bazillion to the following people for reviewing: **mh21, NSteph2883, MahfearaakTahrodiis, brighteyes2889, f4vivian, Kou Shun'u, dodge1989, morpheusandmuse, 372259, Radiant Innocence**... I love you all! We need some sort of secret handshake and maybe monogrammed blazers, yes?

In case anyone is interested, I posted a few one-shots recently. The first is AU Voldmione humor, called "Tabula Rasa". The second is basically twenty pages of Dramione angst, "The Year of the Seventh Toll". Also, just fyi, while writing Tom's diary entry for this chapter I was listening to "Gallery Piece" by Of Montreal and it kind of totally works. Ok I'll shut up now. Cheers!

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Hermione coughed as clouds of black smoke billowed up from the cellar to obscure her vision. She thought she could hear screams echoing somewhere nearby. And Riddle—his hand was still around the nape of her neck, solid and somehow steadying.

"Take down your anti-disapparition charm," she croaked. "We have to get out of here!"

"I never cast one," he replied, drawing his wand.

"Excuse me?"

"I was bluffing, all right?" he spat, and she realized that of course he must be telling the truth, because he had just apparated moments ago. How could she have missed it? "I haven't learned how to cast it yet."

"But... I can't disapparate. I can feel it. That means—"

"Someone else is here, yes. Now be quiet for a second."

Simultaneously it seemed to occur to both of them to extinguish the fire by magical means. They waved their wands as one and spewed jets of water at the wall of roaring flames barring the entrance way. The water hissed and steamed as it hit the wall but had no discernible effect on the fire whatsoever.

"Enchanted flames," said Riddle unnecessarily. "We'll have to fight our way out. Stand back, Hermione."

Old-fashioned chivalry, of all things, struck Hermione as so ridiculous that she spared him only a short look of contempt before pushing forward and facing the boarded up window across the room that was cracking and spitting cinders. She braced herself and aimed a kick at the low-hanging window frame, which accomplished little besides showering her with ash. Hermione cried out in pain as cinders fell into her eyes, and all of a sudden Riddle was standing in front of her, battering the window with his shoulder until the boards gave in and an opening large enough to crawl through appeared. Just as her head was beginning to spin from the smoke she felt herself being pulled through the window and tossed into a soft snow bank outside. A moment later Riddle landed next to her, breathing raggedly, and threw a hand onto her shoulder in an unconscious way.

He was lying quite close to her in the cold, smelling of ash, and everything was white and nothing felt real. She could almost pretend that it _wasn't_ real as Riddle turned slowly on his side and gave her a penetrating look. Before she knew what was happening his lips had brushed hers ever so lightly and there was a roaring in her ears. In a moment she would come to her senses and stop, but she was tired and he had saved her—_he_ had saved her—and for now she wanted nothing more than to pull in much closer and bite down and—

An unearthly howl rose up from the burning building and Hermione sat up abruptly to see a column of smoke rising from the roof. She could have sworn she saw a pair of golden wings peek through the darkness before she smoke evaporated.

"It seems," said Riddle quietly, "like we have a problem.

_Yes,_ Hermione agreed privately. _Yes, a_ very _big problem._

* * *

"Miss Granger, are we interrupting your beauty sleep?" asked the gruff voice of the one-legged Professor Kettleburn, and Hermione's eyes opened with a snap.

"No, Professor," she said hurriedly, trying to cover up the fact that she had indeed been nodding off by looking as bright and alert as possible. "Er, Bowtruckles are allergic to Ashwinder scales."

"An excellent answer, Miss Granger. But I asked the question eight minutes ago. Do try to keep your eyes open, hmm?"

"Yes, Professor."

Hermione had not fallen asleep in class for over four years—not since the days of her first time turner. Unfortunately she had not managed to get more than a few scattered minutes of sleep that weekend, and had stumbled through Monday's classes feeling slightly less mentally adequate than a Flobberworm.

There was no getting around what had happened. What she had allowed to happen in the snow and ash. It had happened, of course, because Riddle was trying some new way of manipulating her, and she knew it, she _knew_ it. Yet there was no getting around the treacherous way her thoughts turned to him whenever left idle; not only to wonder what he might be plotting but to imagine how his hair might be falling into his eyes and how the cuffs of his shirtsleeves might be pulled over his forearms.

The only way to avoid it was to focus entirely upon the mystery of the fire which had badly damaged the Shrieking Shack, reducing it to its shabby and gloom-ridden state. There was no other alternative, none. She summoned up the images that had haunted her all her life whenever her thoughts strayed: the eyes of the Basilisk that had loomed up to petrify her in her second year; the Muggle family dangling in mid-air at the Quidditch world cup; the feeling of Bellatrix Lestrange's knife digging into her throat; the faces of Fred and Lupin and Tonks as they lay in their caskets. All the things that would never have happened without Lord Voldemort. She had only to imagine the look on Harry's face if she tried to reason that Riddle and Voldemort were not really one and the same, as the former was short half a dozen horcruxes, to renew her determination not to think of the Head Boy.

Her trespasses, in Dumbledore's words, were for the greater good.

Hermione shook off the cobwebs of sleep once more and watched impatiently as Kettleburn handed a tray of wood-lice to a clan of Bowtruckles. She had rejoined Care of Magical Creatures mainly in the hopes of encountering Hagrid somewhere along the way, but had so far been disappointed. Taking advantage of what was one of the few classes she did not share with Riddle, however, she hung back after the other students had left.

"Professor," she said tentatively, "I was wondering what you knew about phoenixes."

"We won't be covering Phoenixes until the third term," Kettleburn replied briskly.

"Yes but... they're fascinating, aren't they? I thought I might do a bit of, er, supplementary research. For instance, if you could tell me anything about the true birth of the Phoenix..."

Kettleburn considered her for a moment with his one good eye.

"Fascinating, noble creatures, Phoenixes, yes. One of the wizarding world's most endangered species. And if you're asking me for an answer to the old proverb—Which came first, the Pheonix or the flame?—then I'm afraid I have no answer for you. It is one of wizarding lore's great unsolved mysteries."

Hermione frowned. Always, she felt as though the connecting thread to all the mysteries plaguing her was just beyond her grasp.

"I'll keep that in mind, Professor," said Hermione before hitching her bag over her shoulder and starting off across the grounds. Because the last remnants of October sunshine had persisted into the evening, she decided to skip dinner in the Great Hall, not to mention Riddle's presence at the Slytherin table, and went to sit under her favorite beech tree by the lake. Riddle had made no overt efforts to seek her out since she had taken off at a run and left him in Hogsmead, but she would not put it past him to berate her with questions in the crowded Hall where she had to keep a low profile.

"One of wizarding lore's great unsolved mysteries," she repeated to herself, deep in thought.

"Talking to yourself, Granger?"

Hermione jumped violently and pulled out the gilded mirror she had taken to carrying around in her pocket for safekeeping.

"What do you want, Malfoy? Where are Ron and Harry?"

"The Chosen One and his disciples are attending a Ministry ball in their honor," said Malfoy snidely. "I'm on mirror babysitting duty tonight."

"They went to a ball?" said Hermione incredulously.

Malfoy gave an indifferent snort. "I think Potter's girlfriend dragged him out. Of course, Weasley couldn't resist begging a bit of the spotlight for himself. Anyway, I've been _instructed_ to give you a message."

"Spit it out, then," she said, dipping her feet into the water.

"Wendell and Monica Wilkins are safe."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "W—what did you say?"

"They're _safe_, Granger," Malfoy repeated impatiently. "That's it. No need to wet yourself."

"What else?"

"That's all. Weasley wouldn't even tell me what it meant. Just said he and Potter found Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They're well."

"Oh for heaven's sake. It means my parents are alive! Thank you," she said earnestly. "_Thank you_."

Malfoy did not speak for a long time. Finally he said, "Don't thank _me_, Granger."

"I just mean—I'm happy, that's all. You know what it's like, when something comes along that's so good it erases all your guilt?" She was not sure she had any place saying these things to Malfoy, except that—sad thought as it was—without harry and Ron there he was the closest thing she had to a friend.

"No," Malfoy replied. "I don't."

Hermione felt a genuine pang of sympathy for him, after everything he had seen and done.

"You can forgive yourself, Malfoy. It's all you can do."

She thought he might curse at her or simply leave. Instead he said in an oddly stilted tone, "Maybe you should take your own advice. Now if that's all, I do have some things I'd like to be doing besides guard duty, so if you'll excuse me..."

Then he was gone.

* * *

_The burning of the old Valmount property has been attributed to shoddy construction. But I know what I saw. There was something else in that house. _Someone_ else, who tried to keep us inside. All that's left is to discover whether the charm was meant for me or Hermione._

_In my various undertakings of the last six years I've made enemies, I know that. And now one of them—it's a long list, I'll admit—might be trying to destabilize me. But based on the abilities Hermione showed today, the ambush might just as easily have been directed at her._

_She—_

_It's becoming absurd, this situation. I can't even write it without trembling with—is it envy? I don't remember when I've been so furious or so—yes, envious, I suppose. Except maybe when I tracked down the Riddles, but that's..._

_She conjured Salazar Slytherin. My noblest ancestor, right there, close enough to touch thanks to... She couldn't have summoned him from the grave. That's not possible. His body is long since desiccated, and Inferi don't work that way, and—and how is it possible at all? But it wasn't a hoax. I know the traces of powerful magic when I see them._ I don't know what spell she used._ I imagine she drew power from me to assist her, since she was holding my hands in hers. Not unpleasant—_

_I want—_

_I want to know how she did it. This is all connected._ What was she trying to prove?_ And what does it have to do with the fire? It's maddening not to _know_._

_Hermione ought to be on this list of my enemies—at the top of it, in a lot of ways. Apart from what happened today, there are all those secrets she shouldn't know, and the Legilimency, and the fact that mudblood or not she's an incredibly powerful witch. But more than that, she's- she doesn't...  
_

_I want her. There are no words for how _much_ I want her. Unfortunate, but a natural impulse, I suppose. I've brewed up antidotes to every kind of love potion imaginable to no effect (Something of a relief considering my own mother's disgusting—how else could she have bewitched my father into... But that's neither here nor there). How infuriating to think she was telling the truth. I just... want her. Sometimes I think I can sense that it's mutual (She didn't stop me when I kissed her and I hated her for tasting so good, so damn good) but eventually she always pulls away. It's a dangerous, sick sort of feeling when she stops, suddenly, like she's remembering something, I don't know what, and all at once she wants nothing to do with me._

_Is it always like this? It's no wonder the degenerates in this school can't focus long enough to get through a lesson without making half a dozen blunders apiece._

_I hate everything about it all unimaginably. It was almost enough that... When the house was on fire I thought I meant to leave her there. But there was something so counter-intuitive about letting her get hurt that it felt as though I didn't even have a choice in the end._

_Unacceptable. The best thing to do for now, until I can think up another strategy to get her to talk, is to keep my distance. Caractacus Burke has secured the connection with Hepzibah Smith as discussed and so I have more important things to be getting on with anyway. I don't need to be distracted._

_Absolutely not._

—_R_

* * *

By far the most interesting of Hermione's classes was Transfiguration with Dumbledore, whose eclecticism was surpassed only by his vast knowledge of seemingly every branch of magic. She found the lessons so enjoyable that she often hung back after the bell to speak to the future Headmaster about her research into the following week's topic. On the final class before Halloween, however, it was Dumbledore who requested that she stay behind after the rest of the students had left.

"Excellent work on those transmutative spells today," he commended her. "I wanted to alert you to the fact that I will be absent from the school this weekend."

"Why sir?" asked Hermione quickly, and hoped that she had not been rude.

Dumbledore smiled. "I have business that requires my attention elsewhere. I think it would be... _prudent_ for you to refrain from holding any impromptu Legilimency lessons with Tom Riddle while I am away."

Hermione wondered whether she was imagining the knowing look in his eye.

"My friends in the—in my time have found some more research that might help us repair my time turner," she mentioned. "I was hoping I could review it with you."

"When I return," said Dumbledore a little dismissively. "Oh, and Professor Slughorn asked me to give you this."

He handed her an envelope, which she opened and read with a poorly suppressed groan. It was an invitation to a party in Slughorn's office on Halloween night. Apart from being rather tired of Slughron's parties in general, Hermione did not look forward to having to find someone to invite before Riddle could ambush her. Then an idea occurred to her.

Bidding goodbye to Dumbledore, she whipped out the Marauders' Map and used it to locate the person she was looking for in the Astronomy wing, alone and looking as sullen as ever.

"Moody!" she called, climbing the tower steps two by two to catch up with him. "Alastor Moody, wait!"

"What d'you want?" he asked gruffly, looking her up and down as his magical eye swiveled up to the ceiling. She wondered briefly how long he'd had it.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to Professor Slughorn's Halloween party with me," she said without preamble.

Moody scowled. "What the hell're you asking me for?"

"I meant as friends," Hermione specified. "The party would be a good opportunity for you to meet some people from the Ministry. You want to be an Auror, don't you?"

"Never really thought about it," he muttered.

Hermione tried not to gape. "Well, anyway, I thought we could help each other. Trust me, the party will be worth it. And I've got a bit of a problem. I could use an extra pair of eyes to help me watch over things in the castle."

Moody seemed to consider her for a moment, inscrutable. "Granger, is it?" Hermione nodded. "Yeah all right, I'll go. But don't expect me to dress up."

* * *

The only dress Hermione had managed to find in the limited clothing selection offered by her beaded bag was a bright crimson garment with a modest hemline trimmed in gold. As a result she spent over an hour before Slughorn's party locked away in her dormitory, transfiguring the color of her dress. In addition, she was hiding from her housemates.

Word had spread quickly through the school that she was taking Moody to Slughorn's party, and she had received the anticipated amount of scorn from the Slytherins. To her surprise, however, she had found that Riddle had also begun giving her the cold shoulder. She had thought, at first, that it might be a new tactic he was employing to try to extract information from her. Yet as the days had drawn on and he had kept his distance she had started to wonder if it was possible—surely it could not be possible—that she had wounded his pride somehow in the Shrieking Shack.

He no longer sat with her in the Great Hall and would not partner with her in class.

And it was madness, sheer madness, that she regretted his absence.

Securing her hair with a ribbon, she exited her room and stowed her wand in an inner pocket of her newly moss green dress.

"Slughorn's party doesn't start for another thirty minutes."

She whipped around, and there by the fire, of course, was Riddle. Even in second-hand dress robes he looked absurdly handsome. Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her dress, feeling suddenly ill at ease. Over the course of her year on the run she had just skimmed the edge of malnutrition, and though three hearty meals a day since her arrival in the past had helped her recovery, the skin around her collarbones still seemed a little unnaturally hollowed. This was easy to hide when wearing baggy school robes every day, but not so when dressed in a thin silk number with minuscule shoulder straps.

Riddle's eyes raked over her dress, sending chills up her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He looked hungry.

"I have to meet Moody before going up," Hermione muttered.

A shadow passed over his face and he stood up.

"Don't tell me it's true?" he said, striding over to her door and running a hand through his hair in an unconscious way. "You're going to the party with that sorry-faced Gryffindor?"

Hermione swallowed. "Yes."

Riddle reached out as if to toy with a strand of her hair, then seemed to think better of it. "_Why?_"

"He doesn't set giant snakes on his fellow students, for one. Or assault innocent centaurs."

Riddle made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff, his head dipping lower, closer to hers.

"Yes," he said. "That might be true. But can he do this?"

Out of nowhere his wand was pointed at her throat and as she gasped he spun her around so that she was pressed, face first, against her cold mahogany door. The point of his wand brushed against her spine at the nape of her neck, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his teeth grazing against her skin. She shuddered.

"_Jamais ai-je connu autrement que l'ennui, profond et sombre au coeur de mon être,_" he said in a low voice, drawing out each word. "_Jusqu'au moment, sublime sans raison, ou se posèrent mes yeux sur ta fenêtre._"

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, but she knew. Warmth spread over her skin from the tip of his wand, and she gritted her teeth but could not help leaning back and pressing herself closer to him

_Why wasn't she leaving?_

"_Beauté sans égale, aperçu de loin, s'empara sitôt de mon esprit,_" he went on. "_Malheur soit le mien si jamais ne puis-je goûter ces lèvres ceris_."

_Why…_

She could feel her cheeks flushing and her breath coming in shallow gasps, and there was something happening that had absolutely no business happening. An electrifying, tingling feeling was coiling in her abdomen. _How_ was he doing that just with _words?_

With great difficulty she managed to gather her wits about her and muttered, "That's one of Slytherin's. His sonnet for Rowena Ravenclaw. What—"

"A man of many talents, Slytherin," Riddle breathed against her ear, trailing his wand still lower down her back. "Had quite the way with words—very talented with his tongue, you might say."

She closed her eyes.

"Not many people know that he laced an incantation into the words of his sonnet," he said. "With a very particular effect. _Les étoiles ne brillent plus que pour toi..._"

"Oh," Hermione murmured, gripping the door frame tightly. She felt warm, so warm. It was—

_Enough._ A voice in her head rose to her defense, and she turned violently to face him. It was a mistake. They were now only an inch apart, and breathing heavily.

The passageway to the common room opened and a young girl with lank black hair and a sallow face slunk in, casting them a dubious look.

"Evening, Eileen," said Riddle pleasantly, taking a step back and pocketing his wand.

_Eileen..._ Hermione's eyes widened as Eileen Prince scowled at her and stalked off in the direction of the second year girls' dormitory. It was really remarkable how much she looked like her son. She chuckled softly to herself, and Riddle looked at her appraisingly.

Finally he smiled. "Enjoy the party."

She had not thought that he could do anything that would shock her more than he already. She had been wrong.

He turned on his heel and left, disappearing out of the common room without a backwards glance.

Hermione drew a shaky breath and tried to collect herself. The clock over the fireplace struck three quarters of the hour, and she would be late to meet Moody if she did not hurry. Her thoughts in absolute turmoil, she raced out into the dungeons and up into the Entrance Hall. Riddle was nowhere to be seen but Moody was waiting for her.

"You look nice," he said in a tone of voice that suggested her appearance was particularly irritating to him.

"Thanks, so do you," said Hermione distractedly; he was wearing what looked vaguely like a fifty year old Quidditch uniform. It was essential that she should avoid crossing paths with Riddle until she could get her racing thoughts under control.

"So what're we keeping an eye out for?" asked Moody as they made their way up the marble staircase.

"Anyone out of place, to start with," said Hermione. "Anybody who isn't actually enrolled here. And I know this might sound odd, but I need to know if anyone is, er, keeping any magical creatures in or around the castle. Like a Phoenix, specifically."

She braced herself for laughter, but Moody simply nodded, apparently unfazed by her odd request.

Hermione hesitated. "I also need to know where Dumbledore is going when he leaves the school. I could use an extra pair of ears too. Anything you can tell me about him would be a great help."

A lopsided expression almost like a smile appeared on Moody's face.

"Not as stupid as the rest of them Slytherins, are you?" he said. They had arrived at Slughorn's office. Loud music filled the corridor, bouncing off the walls.

Hermione grinned at him. "We'll see, I suppose. In the meantime let's try to exercise a little constant vigilance, shall we?"

"Constant vigilance?" Moody repeated thoughtfully. "Yeah... not bad."

She had to bite down on her tongue to stifle an incredulous laugh, before saying, "Listen, would you mind popping in before me for a minute and telling me if, er, if Tom Riddle is in there? I sort of need to steer clear of him."

Moody shrugged and nodded, rounding the corner and lumbering into the party. Hermione waited, counting out two full minutes in her head. Now that she was here she wanted to attend the party less than ever. What she wanted more than anything was to go back to her dormitory and sink into her bed and sleep a blissful, dreamless sleep that would wipe Tom Riddle out of her mind completely.

Just when she was beginning to wonder where Moody had got to, someone seized her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth, dragging her away down the deserted corridor.

* * *

**A/N:** Ahaha sorry, I can't seem to help myself with the cliffhangers! Anyway here's Slytherin's sonnet (not really in sonnet form... I don't know, Slytherin was a piece of work, right?) Trust me it's at least slightly more poetic/respectful of rhyme schemes in French:

"Never had I known anything but boredom, deep and dark at the heart of my being, until the moment, sublime without reason, when my eyes alighted on your window. Beauty without equal, glimpsed from afar, siezed at once my spirit. Despair take me should I never taste those cherry lips. The stars now burn naught but for you..."

Update will be next thursday ish :)

-Mel


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** You guys wanna do me a favor and tell me what EWE means? I keep seeing it in descriptions for all these fics, and I'm like... Elegiac Wizards are Enchanting? Eggplant With Escargot? Encarta Was Excellent? They all seem equally appropriate (especially that last one. Does anybody remember Encarta? That shit was on point)... Anyway it turns out I'm going to be busy the next few days so I'm uploading this early. I anticipate quite a lot of disgruntled reviews but hey, at least this is the longest chapter yet right? Also, I think it's becoming clear that Avery is like my literary punching bag in this story. So... sorry to any Avery fans out there (Anybody? Anyone at all? No? Good).

Thank you, thank you, to the following people for reviewing: **mh21, Kou Shun'u, HPFanGirl01, NSteph2883, MahfearaakTahrodiis, brighteyes2889, alwaysdoctortrench, UnattainableDarkAngel, Radiant Innocence, Devilish Mind, .7946, 372259, Dodge1989, morpheusandmuse, Zombie Reine.** This story officially has the most reviews out of all my fics on here. Thanks so much for making that happen!

Soundtrack for this chapter: GO! by Santigold. Cheers!

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

"You didn't have to hit so hard!"

"You said 'knocked out,' what did you expect?"

"Shh, I think she's waking up."

Hermione came back to consciousness with a splitting pain in her head. She opened her eyes blearily to find herself in the last place she would have expected.

"The Gryffindor Common Room?" she muttered, trying to stand and realizing with some alarm that her hands were tired to an armchair behind her back.

"Shut up," someone snapped. Hermione looked all around the room, taking in the familiar scarlet tapestries, but could see no one anywhere who might have spoken.

"We only have ten minutes," said a second unseen individual. The voice was familiar, so familiar, but her invisible interlocutor was whispering hoarsely and her head was buzzing in pain and she could not place it.

"What do you want?" she asked, struggling against the ropes binding her wrists. It was not fair: so many earth-shattering things kept happening to her in succession that she felt as though she had lived several years in one day.

"You to stuff it and pay attention, mudblood," said the first voice, equally familiar. Where _were_ they?

"That's _enough,_" growled the second very angrily. "Apologize."

"You must be dreaming!"

"This isn't getting us anywhere. Look, Hermione," the voice got closer. "The danger is in the mountains, but it's getting nearer."

"Why can't you just tell me what's going on?" Hermione pleaded.

"It doesn't work that way, I'm sorry. I've got strict instructions. You can't have all the answers yet."

"Move it along," snarled the first voice.

"All right, all right. Hermione, don't lose hope. You know what the key to all this is?"

"What?" she breathed.

"Dumbledore. He knows. It's getting closer, Hermione. Be careful."

"Wait!" Hermione cried, but already the portrait hole was opening and her invisible attackers were disappearing. Her wand was placed carefully on a side table. She pulled at her bonds until her wrists burned, but it was no use; without her wand she was powerless. Just when she thought things could not possible get any worse, she heard footsteps echoing down the boys' dormitory staircase. She had just enough time to kick through the leg of the armchair to free her hands, retrieve her wand, and heal the gash on her head where her attackers had hit her before a pajama-clad fifth came into view and let out a string of confused curses at the sight of her.

"There is _never_ a reason to enter another house's common room, _never!_" squeaked Professor Marchbanks, the head of Gryffindor, fifteen minutes later.

"I realize that, Professor," said Hermione, massaging her wrists behind her back so that Marchbanks could not see the bruises she had not had time to mend. She had no wish for the staff to start investigating the mystery of whoever was following her. "But like I said, I didn't break in, I was tricked into coming here."

"Miss Granger," said Marchbanks sternly, "I may be on the verge of retirement but please do not think you can play me for a fool. I will be speaking to Professor Slughorn about setting you a detention." She paused and her face softened a little. "You are white as a sheet, dear girl. Are you quite all right?"

"I'm fine," muttered Hermione, wishing more than anything to get away and back to her dormitory.

"Well then you had best get back to bed. And consider yourself lucky that I am only going to take twenty points from Slytherin."

"Yes, Professor."

Hermione waited until Marchbanks was gone before stumbling out of the portrait hole and dropping to the floor out in the corridor, slumped against the wall. She would have to dissect what had happened soon enough, but first she had to take a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes.

Footsteps approached, briskly at first, then faltering as they drew nearer.

"Hermione?"

She looked up and sighed, not entirely surprised.

"Of course. I don't know what I expected," she said glumly.

Riddle looked almost affronted. "Never mind me then, I'll—" He broke off as his eyes landed on the angry purple bruises blooming on her wrists. He went completely, unbelievably still.

"What is this?" he asked, detaching each word with deadly precision.

"_Nothing._"

He knelt next to her and picked up her wrists with surprisingly gentle hands.

"Who?" he insisted.

Hermione's head was pounding as she said, "Somebody with an invisibility cloak, I think. Or maybe the Bloody Baron has a violent cousin." She pulled her hands away, acutely conscious that she was in a public corridor. "And just so you know, I've _never_ slipped you any kind of potion or—anything like that. So you can stop worrying and get back to the party, Tom, because I—"

He stiffened ever so slightly and Hermione clamped her lips shut. How could she have slipped up like that?

"How did you even know I was here?" she asked nervously.

"Wouldn't leave me be 'till I let him help me look," grumbled Moody, appearing around the corner and giving Hermione what might have been an apologetic look. Riddle immediately stood and backed away.

"Thank you, Alastor," said Hermione. "Really. But I'm all right. You can go back to the party too."

Moody shook his head. "Got to get you to your common room. Riddle, you can go."

Riddle looked at Moody as though he was something mildly interesting he had found under his shoe.

"Are you... _telling me what to do_, Moody?"

Moody glared.

"Actually," said Hermione, "both of you need to get back to Slughorn's office, because that's where whoever kidnapped me is most likely to have gone. I could tell by their voices they were definitely kids. And you can let me know if you see anything suspicious.

"Could've been students that weren't invited," Moody suggested darkly. "Didn't see."

Hermione shook her head. "Maybe, but they weren't regular students. They wouldn't be able to hide in any of the common rooms or get past the caretaker. The party is the best place to blend in if they haven't left the school yet. I need to get back to my dormitory to—take care of something. Go."

Riddle turned without another word. Moody followed, looking far less convinced of her plan and shuffling his feet.

* * *

"Harry!" Hermione reached for her mirror with trembling hands. "_Harry?_"

"It's me," Ron replied. There was a moment of shocked silence.

"Where's Harry?"

"It's nice to hear your voice too, Hermione."

She punched her pillow in frustration. "I'm sorry, Ron! But I think one of Harry's ancestors just knocked me unconscious and tied me up in the Gryffindor common room!"

"You're joking!" Ron spluttered. "Are—are you all right? How do you figure it was one of Harry's grandparents? I swear, if someone put a hand on you—"

"I'm fine, but they said something about Dumbledore—"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted, "are you sure it wasn't someone else? You've... I mean Malfoy says you've been spending a lot of time with Riddle, and you know this sounds like something evil, right up his alley. And... well _why_, Hermione? I don't understand why you've been acting all friendly with him to begin with—"

Hermione practically screamed in frustration. "I don't have time to talk about this now, Ron! If you were so concerned then where have you been for the last month? I haven't heard a word from you!"

"Because it made me feel like rubbish!" Ron exclaimed. "You hadn't even been gone a month and you'd started getting all chummy with—bloody V-Voldemort. How was I supposed to feel?"

It was the first time she had heard him say the Dark Lord's name, and it was this, perhaps, that mollified her. It was this that made her hold back a roar of disbelief at his accusation that she could have so easily—what? Started messing around with Riddle? Fallen for _Tom Riddle?_

_Isn't that exactly what you're doing?_ A cold voice that sounded far too much like _his_ said in her head.

No. No, it was not that simple, not at all. If she was truly doing what she thought was for the best, how could she be blamed for having to blur the lines a little?

"Ron," she said gently, "you're not being fair. You can't just keep disappearing like last year in the forest with Harry every time something doesn't go the way you want. If you would have stuck around for five minutes I could have explained that I _had_ to befriend Tom because of all the things that have been—"

"Tom?" he interrupted ominously. "V-Voldemort is _Tom_ now?"

"That's his name, Ron." She was finding it increasingly difficult to rein in her temper as the pounding in her head worsened. "You know what a name is, don't you? Or is the concept too advanced?"

"Can you hear yourself? Do you know how you sound?" He was yelling now.

"Well I suppose if you don't like it you can just run away again!" she retorted. It was always so difficult to keep from resorting to low blows when it came to Ron. _How could it not be, when he gave her so much ammunition?_ she thought, and hated herself for thinking it.

"I'll pass your concerns on to Harry," he said after a while, in a painfully hollow voice.

"Ron, I..."

She had no time to decide how, exactly, she would have ended her sentence, because he was gone. Once again, gone.

* * *

_Only one person in this castle, to my knowledge, owns an invisibility cloak._

_I haven't decided yet whether to let him live. The bruises on her arms... And this means he's operating on his own—or worse, taking orders from someone else. I won't tolerate this kind of dissent in the ranks._

_I know what needs to happen._

—_R_

* * *

November descended upon the school in a howl of biting wind and snow that cast a dismal pall over the already gloomy castle. Hermione felt, increasingly, like a stranger cast upon the shores of a distant island where the air and the water and the very ground beneath her feet were unfamiliar. This was not her Hogwarts, but a cold, unforgiving prison, and nothing, not her classes or her research into time travel or the excitable tension preceding the season's first Quidditch match, could make her forget it.

Dumbledore had returned to the castle the day after Halloween and listened to the story of her attack with maddening calm before suggesting that she set aside her worry for what was probably an isolated incident. She had been hard pressed to listen to the rest of his discourse concerning Mr. Dagmar's nearly completed time turner, so close was she to exploding in anger and storming out. She no longer felt guilty for receiving regular reports on Dumbledore's actions from Moody, who seemed to have taken a grudging liking to her. Unfortunately these reports told her very little, as the Transfiguration Professor appeared to be doing nothing at all out of the ordinary that Moody could discover. Hermione knew that he must simply be hiding his endeavors too well. Often he emerged from his office fireplace for their Legilimency lessons with his wand already drawn. But Hermione had given up attempting to use these lessons to interrogate him. She would never get anything out of Dumbledore that he did not expressly intend for her to know.

Her Legilimency lessons with Riddle, meanwhile, had ceased entirely. For a whole week after Slughorn's party he kept his distance from her, for which she was glad. She had no wish to think about what had happened that night.

_No, nothing happened. Nothing at all._

She could almost believe it. The events of that night were nearly jumbled and surreal enough to file them away in some distant corner of her mind as a lucid dream. Her latest chats in the mirror with Harry and Ginny (Ron remained conspicuous only in his absence) had yielded no helpful developments on her Harry's-grandfather-as-a-kidnapper theory (in fact she could not discover that Charlus Potter was even a student at the school yet), and Riddle's actions could be dismissed as a maladjusted attempt at manipulation.

So why, then, was she spending her evenings gazing at his dot on the Map? It was one thing to reason that her awe of his mind and power and nerve explained how he impacted her physically, inspiring a kind of electric chill rather than the disgust she always expected. It was another entirely to suppose that her hidden penchant for men who were accomplished, imposing, grandiose—men like Krum or, unfortunately, Gilderoy Lockhart—was reason enough to be monitoring his every movement with a sort of helpless obsession.

She was doing it for her own safety and that of the other students, certainly. And to attempt to decipher his many secrets. But did this account for the swooping lurch in her stomach every time she found him on the Map? Every time she remembered his wand pressing against her spine...

It was not until the following Saturday, however, that Hermione realized the extent to which she was becoming fixated on Riddle. The tiny dot on the Map labeled Copernicus Avery exited the boys' dormitory, and Riddle followed behind at an inconspicuous distance. It was then that Hermione realized she was eagerly picturing various humiliating altercations in which Riddle specialized, and which might be awaiting Avery when he turned around. The vicious tenor of her thoughts surprised and unsettled her: it was not right, surely, for her to wish ill on Avery when the latter was just a schoolboy, though admittedly an uncivilized and bigoted one.

Except that she was almost positive Avery had something to do with the danger that had been circling her for weeks. And if he was only a schoolboy, wasn't the same true of Tom? This Tom Riddle who had not yet killed Harry's parents, who had not yet damaged his soul beyond repair with a battalion of horcruxes, who had not yet ripped apart the lives of so many people... didn't he deserve the same consideration as any other student?

Was this why her curiosity over him burned so intensely? She thirsted to know more, always more, about his plans and the workings of his inexplicably secretive mind. It overtook her sometimes, that thirst to know everything about him, until she could not even summon up the energy to regret the events of Halloween night.

She could not regret it, even though she had always been so unshakably positive that anything she did that made her feel so hot and cold and shaky, she would do with Ron. But that plan had been thrown violently off track after the battle, because there had been _so many_ funerals to attend. And the worst of them had been Fred's because Ron had come to her afterward with a frantic, desperate light in his eyes. She had been shocked by the ferocity with which he had kissed her, sliding his hands roughly under her sweater, and she had pushed him away gently but firmly—_Not like this, Ron._ Afterward there had been an awful formality in his attitude towards her, and Hermione had felt sick because somehow—somehow—she had been relieved not to feel his hands, clumsy and fumbling, not at all agile and assured like she had imagined.

Abruptly Hermione stood and broke into a jog as she left her dormitory to follow Riddle's dot on the Map, desperate to find out where he was going. She _had_ to know, not only what he was up to but whether, contrary to what Dumbledore might say, there was even a faint chance, a chance in a million, that she could drag him from his tenebrous path. All it would take was one small, well-placed act, like a pebble which, when thrown in precisely the right place, could divert the flow of an entire river. She thought she had seen an inkling of it in his eyes when she had conjured Salazar Slytherin.

She increased her pace until she found herself standing on the seventh floor staircase. Of course, they would be here.

The door next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy shimmered into being down the corridor. They had not even bothered to shield the room from outsiders, for Merlin's sake! Hermione approached it cautiously, weighing her options. What were the chances of her encountering something more horrible than anything she had already seen?

With a deep, steadying breath, Hermione opened the door and entered the Room of Requirement, where she was greeted by one of the strangest sights she had ever witnessed.

The room was plastered from floor to ceiling in portraits of a lank-haired, homely woman whose eyes stared in opposite directions. Riddle was leaning casually against a wall and examining his own fingernails. At the center of the room Avery stood with his wand raised, casting curse after curse that cut deep gashes on his exposed forearms.

Hermione could not even bring herself to make a stealthy entrance.

"What is this?" she exclaimed.

Riddle's face betrayed not an ounce of surprise as he looked at her, but she saw his knuckles tighten over his wand. She thought that he might, for once, be a little apprehensive about being caught in blatant wrongdoing. Avery lowered his wand, blood dripping sickeningly down his arms.

"I don't remember inviting you here," said Riddle.

Hermione glared and ran to Avery's side, moving to heal his wounds.

"Get away from me, mudblood," Avery spat.

Hermione buried the tiny grain of hurt that word still elicited and scoffed. On a whim she flicked her wand at her own wrist and cast a non-verbal _Sectumsempra_, sending a cascade of her own blood dripping to the ground to join Avery's.

"Tell me," she said scathingly, "which is yours and which is mine? You should be able to differentiate easily, I'd think."

Avery's eyes darted to Riddle, who was watching the scene unfold with an indulgent look of mild amusement, as though waiting for gamboling kittens to tire of their frivolous games. Hermione quickly healed the cut on her wrist and repeated, "What is this?"

"Avery," said Riddle, ignoring her, "you can go. We'll continue this at a later date."

Avery scurried from the room with murder in his eyes, but the subservient dip of his head as he passed Riddle said clearly that he was not about to raise any real protest.

"Well," said Riddle, his eyes fixed on his fingernails, "I guess this is it, then."

Hermione was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"Let's not put ourselves through this charade. I'll admit I haven't been careful enough about what I've allowed you to see since you've arrived. A rare oversight, but there it is."

Was he preparing to say that he could not let her leave, knowing what she had seen? Hermione tried to control her breathing, tightening her grip on her wand.

"I imagine Dumbledre'd practically wet himself at the prospect of actually giving me detention," he went on.

This did not seem at all in keeping with Hermione's line of thought, and she frowned her confusion at him, wiping a trickle of blood against her sleeve.

Riddle's head tilted to the side, always so snake-like, and his eyes darted for a second to the patch of blood on the ground. His face was almost too impassive, which she had learned meant something she had done had actually gotten to him.

"Unless," he said quietly, "you weren't planning on reporting what you've seen here. Just like you didn't tell anyone about the snake or the centaurs. I did wonder."

"What good would that do?"

"I see. The thought never even crossed your mind, did it?" He shook his head and walked right past her toward the door. After a bewildered moment she raced to catch up to him, barring his passage with her hands on her hips before he could leave.

"I asked you what that was about with Avery," she said stubbornly. She had learned by now that the chances of his cursing her for her obstinacy were slim, though her fingers still clenched her wand.

"I was in the mood to give him a choice," he said. "Either I could inflict damage, or he could do it himself. He chose the latter."

"And why was any damage necessary?"

"He hurt you, Hermione. I saw the bruises. I wouldn't think you'd care what happens to him."

Hermione blinked.

"You think _Avery_ dragged me off the night of the party?"

"You said it was someone with an invisibility cloak. No one else at this school that I know of—"

"That you know of!" Hermione interrupted shrilly. "You think you're the only person at this school with secrets? You think your assumption is enough to _torture_ someone? Well, of course you do."

Was she even sorry for Avery's fate? Hermione shook her head to clear her jumbled thoughts. That was hardly the point. In the meantime Riddle had begun to smile slowly.

"I'm certainly not the only one keeping secrets," he said. "This room, for instance. Quite a useful discovery. But I don't expect you'll tell me how you found it after only a few short weeks here."

"You really didn't know about it?" said Hermione. She felt a little queasy. Yet she supposed that it might not be a bad thing for her to have been the one to reveal to him the future hiding place of one of his horcruxes. After all, this had been one of the easiest ones for Harry to find.

"That's what I thought," said Riddle shrewdly. "I guess I should be thanking you. Dead useful place."

"And what were you, er, thinking about when you first found it?" she asked, eying the portraits of the sullen, ugly woman.

"Nothing in particular." Riddle shrugged. "This is what it looks like when I'm not seeking anything specific. But," he looked rather pleased with himself as he went on, "I can also make it into quite an impressive library."

And now Hermione saw an opportunity. Was it always supposed to happen this way, in order for Harry to find the diadem in his time? Her head spun, but she grinned.

"That's not all it can do. Here, let me show you."

She pulled Riddle out into the corridor and closed her eyes, concentrating as she paced once, twice, three times past the wooden door. When they re-entered the room it had turned into the cathedral sized warehouse for contraband goods Hermione remembered. Riddle's eyes filled with undisguised awe and greed and he looked, for a fleeting moment, much younger than seventeen.

"Right, that settles it," he said at last.

"This will be interesting," Hermione muttered to herself.

"You're not Slughorn's niece, are you? No, definitely not. And I don't think you've been in America the last six years, either. No trace of an accent, for one thing. And your knowledge of this castle surpasses even mine, which I didn't think was possible."

"You're not much for modesty, are you?" said Hermione weakly.

He ignored her and shut the door behind them before striding forward, forcing her back against a stack of three-legged desks. And without any warning at all, he kissed her.

It was not like the kiss they had shared outside the Shrieking Shack.

It was nothing like that quiet whisper of a moment.

It was rough and insistent and so sensuous that it did not even occur to Hermione to stop him. He ran his tongue along her bottom lip and then began to kiss a line down her jaw. His lips sent fire racing over her skin and she thought her hands might be in his hair and she might be pulling him up to kiss him back just as fiercely, but she could not be sure because, _Merlin,_ the way her knees trembled when his hands grasped her waist... There were no words, and she was never at a loss for words. And then he was lifting her up and hitching her onto a desk so that she was sitting, somehow, with her legs wrapped around him, and there was a reason she was doing this. There was a rational reason, something she needed to know, she was sure of it, but just now she could not think what it was.

He growled low in his throat and Hermione thought that she had never heard a more enticing sound in her life. It made her head foggy, and as she arched her back to get closer to him she felt random images, wayward thoughts seemingly without connection, shimmer through her mind. It was a familiar feeling; almost too familiar.

He was trying to break into her memories!

For a moment Hermione was too incensed to do anything. She could not believe Riddle had the discipline to attempt Legilimency at a time like this. Then she realized that she was still kissing him, as though her body had taken over, and it occurred to her, vaguely, that she could retaliate. She could leave, too, but oh no, not really, not with that dull familiar ache building inside her. So she put up her defenses, shaky as they were at present, and the stream of images ceased.

Riddle paused—_no don't, don't stop, don't_—for a brief flicker of a moment before kissing her with renewed vigor, pinning her arms above her head and running his hand down her side. It was not fair, he was not playing fair, and she was furious and bizarrely impressed and warm, the air was so warm.

_No!_ A voice in her head insisted, and she pushed back. Riddle's lips paused against hers again—she had shocked him. Yet his mind was still an impenetrable fortress. How could it be possible for him to maintain such control when every fiber of her traitorous body was swimming in a haze of delight? She continued her attempts to probe his thoughts in a feeble sort of way, losing her conviction by the second. When his thumbs slipped under her blouse and brushed over her stomach she abandoned all reason and reached for his belt.

His defenses fell immediately away.

Riddle's mind stood absolutely unguarded; Hermione could feel it filling with a sort of panicked, elated disbelief. She took her chance and delved in, and suddenly images were flying past her at a vertiginous speed.

A five year old Tom Riddle wandered into a musty town library, meandering through the archives section, where he carried an enormous tome to nearby table, tottering under its weight. There he began, painstakingly, to read through the 'R' section of the town registry, his lips forming each name as his finger moved slowly along the page. Looking desperately for anyone listed as Riddle... An eight year old Tom stood before an unmarked gravestone, tears and mucus running down his face as he screamed in desperate fury at his mother's final resting place, beating at tearing at the ground with small fists... A ten year old Tom was bedridden with fever, and he could feel the cold fingers of death prying at him, and he was wild with fear, rabid with it. He kept himself alive by sheer force of will, buying each breath with an agonizing burst of effort while the Matron and the other children bustled around him, indifferent... A flash of green, and the Tom she knew, perhaps sixteen, was looking into the lifeless eyes of his father, so alike his own, and his wand shook for a brief moment... In the ruins of a filthy hovel Tom pulled a small black diary from his pocket, the diary that held the summation of his masterful work, the conclusive proof that he above all others was worthy to carry the noble blood of Salazar Slytherin. He began to chant a dreadful, ancient incantation, and a toxic gray light filled the hovel as a thread of smoke connected his chest to the diary, which was vibrating violently... Tom strode through a deserted compartment of the Hogwarts Express, a Head Boy's badge gleaming on his chest, and out of nowhere came a flash of bright red light as a hooded figure jumped out in front of him. An odd, dense fog descended on the compartment, obscuring everything around him. Then just as suddenly the fog lifted and Tom walked on, his eyes unfocussed, as though nothing had happened...

"NO!"

Hermione's head whipped back, colliding painfully with the tower of desks behind her, and Riddle's hands closed around her wrists, his fury pinning her back, filling her with dread. Or was it the memories she had seen that left her dismayed? Riddle had already made one horcrux. She had not been certain until this moment: she and Harry had never managed to pin down the precise time, though they'd had their suspicions. Surely she was not _disappointed?_ Besides which, a more pressing worry was the very last of the scenes she had witnessed.

Someone had modified Tom Riddle's memory, and done it so skillfully that Riddle himself was unaware of it.

Hermione's distraction cost her. Riddle used her moment of unguarded surprise to barrel into her mind, and suddenly she was seeing images from her past as though living them a second time.

She was seven, and a teacher at her primary school snatched a heavy paperback from her hands, scolding her for attempting to read a book "beyond her skill level." The whole class snickered at her, and suddenly the mug in the teacher's hand exploded, splashing her face with scalding coffee. Guilt churned in Hermione's stomach as the teacher ran from the room, screaming in pain... She was fifteen, and Viktor was kissing her in Hogsmead, and all she could think was how ridiculous the décor was in Madame Puddifoot's... She was at Dumbledore's funeral and tears were running down her face, but she was also brimming with rage at the sight of Dolores Umbridge simpering in the front row... She was screaming and twitching in agony under Bellatrix Lestrange's wand on the floor of Malfoy Manor... Harry was reaching for Hufflepuff's cup in the Lestranges's Gringott's vault... She, Luna, and Ginny were dueling Bellatrix in the Great Hall as Kingsley, McGonagall, and Slughorn dueled Voldemort. And Harry appeared and he and Voldemort were circling each other. And jets of light broke from each of their wands and just like that Voldemort lay dead on the ground...

Riddle staggered back of his own accord and gave her a look of abject horror. His hair was in dashing disarray but his lips was curled back in a scowl that did not become him. The truth about her—where she had come from, what she stood for—was written plainly on his face, but there was something else there too. Something she had not anticipated.

"Who—?" he began ferociously before shaking his head, apparently lost for words.

Hermione frowned before realizing, with a shock so great it froze her in place, that he was talking about Voldemort. He had seen her tampering with the cup; he must know what it meant. Yet the truth had not sunk in. He refused to recognize himself in her memories.

"Who was that _thing?_" he spat.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Chapter nine, in which Tom Riddle suffers from performance anxiety. No, don't worry, you'll see ;) I hope you're all very proud of me, because I managed not to end this one with too much of a cliffhanger! Shock, surprise... And now to thank my supermegafoxyawesomehot reviewers: **The-Starlight-Crystal, silencedawnedindarkness, Kate Elizabeth Black, UnattainableDarkAngel, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, darmionelives, Brittany Rose Love, mh21, 372259, NSteph2883, douglasbailey7946, brighteyes2889, BarbarafromGR, Devilish Mind, morpheusandmuse, Dodge1989, firewhiskeyfirebolt**... I love you all like Umbridge loves torturing students aaaaaaand that analogy just fell flat on its face. Forget it. Hem hem.

I want to quickly address a recurring comment in the reviews, so if you don't want to hear me ramble about my writerly motivations just skip this next part: Since the beginning I sensed a lot of confusion about the mirrors. Yes, I'll admit, it is a plot contrivance. I do not believe that an in character Hermione would simply let go of her attachment to Ron because of a new-found attraction to Tom. It's not enough. I had to find a way for R/Hr to deteriorate at the same time (and there are some as yet unrevealed plot reasons as well). And I don't think it's _impossible_ that Hermione might have retrieved Sirius's old mirror from Aberforth after the final battle, for whatever, reason. Harry had the shard from the other mirror in his mokeskin pouch. So there, it's not in defiance of canon, it's just my little trick. Furthermore, the relationship of the trio has always been my favorite part of the HP series. As a writer I am not comfortable making any ship happen at the expense of that friendship, so I'm sorry if I've confused anyone with the mirrors storyline, but that's my explanation. I'll let you get on with the chapter then, shall I?

Cheers all!

**CHAPTER NINE**

"Who was that?" Riddle insisted.

Was there any point in lying? Hermione thought it over and decided that there was not. He would see through her in an instant, and there was no telling what he would do to get at the truth. This revelation was not like the others.

"It was you," she said.

"You lie!" Riddle snarled, staggering back further and hitting an enormous birdcage. He leaned against it for support. It was shocking to see him so disarmed. Hermione realized that her blouse was bunched up around her waist—oh Merlin, the price she had paid for that brief glimpse into his mind; her cheeks colored at the thought—and she rearranged herself, jumping primly down from the desk.

"Would I have worked so hard to conceal a lie?" she reasoned.

He believed her, she could see it in his eyes. And he looked all the more horrified for it.

"And—and—" he seemed unable to go on.

"And that was your death," she said bluntly. If he killed her now, she would at least die knowing that she had unnerved him as much as possible. She would plant the seed of doubt firmly in his mind. "Funny thing, mortality, isn't it? Seems you're not immune to it."

"Impossible." His tone was that of a stubborn child discovering that he could not get his way simply by screwing up his face and wailing.

"Because of your horcruxes? I'm sorry to have to contradict you, but they didn't do you a bit of good in the end. In fact they did quite a lot of damage."

His eyes bulged. "And you..."

"I participated in your death, yes," said Hermione, still feigning absolute calm while her heart beat a violent tattoo against her chest. "And there's no point looking like that. You killed—or rather, you _will_ kill—my best friend's parents, my fellow students by the dozen, my Headmaster. You'll try to have _me_ killed. The way I see it, I'm justified."

"Oh I see," said Riddle sardonically. He was already regaining control; it was remarkable, really, how quickly he could master himself. "I see. You've fought the _righteous_ fight."

"If you must know, yes, I have." She stood her ground, defiant.

"And the cup?"

"If you don't know, don't expect me to help you along."

"Enough." He spoke the word with ringing power, and it echoed eerily through the room. "Where—no, excuse me, _when _are you from? How did you get here? Did you think you could rid the world of me before I rose to power? Tell me, _now._"

"I'm not that stupid," said Hermione derisively. "And I'm not an assassin. Believe me, I'd like nothing more than to get away from this time."

"That can't be all there is to it. You're going to talk, or so help me..."

"You can try Legilimency again if you like," said Hermione airly. "But clearly it's quid pro quo. You get a look at my thoughts, I get a look at yours. And as you've seen, my side wins in the end. I could do a lot with that information. I'm a time-traveler, maybe I've already done it. Are you sure you want to take the risk?"

Hatred flared in Riddle's eyes, mingled with something less easily definable that might have been despair, and he raised his wand.

"_Crucio!_"

Hermione braced herself for the mind-bending pain she had felt once before. A scalding feeling began to build in her chest, piercing her like the blade of a white hot knife, but it died after all of three seconds. Not pleasant, but worlds away from the agony she remembered. She drew herself up, unable to believe it. Riddle's face was frozen in an almost comical expression of dismay.

"A friend of mine used to say that to cast an Unforgivable you have to mean it," said Hermione. And God knew he'd used them before. _So why hadn't he meant it? _"You seem to be losing your nerve."

Riddle looked at her, _through_ her, piercing deeper than any curse, and it was a long time before she was able to recognize the expression in his eyes. Because it was a look she had never seen on his face before: it was helplessness. She had floored him; knocked him completely off track. Then the look was gone, replaced by a truly redoubtable sneer.

"Hermione Granger," he said softly. "So you've traveled through time to come see the humble beginnings of the man who tore your world to pieces, is that right? The man who killed someone's parents and someone's teacher and some else's poor dear sweet cousin, no doubt. The man who you've devoted your life to fighting. Yes?"

Hermione swallowed nervously and nodded.

"Tell me, then. How can you stand to have me touch you?" he asked, and left her standing there, dumbfounded.

* * *

_I've never met anyone I couldn't control before._

_No, not true. There's always been Dumbledore, I suppose. But the old fool watches me from afar. It's a thorn in my side that I've never been able to win him over, but he hardly interferes in my day-to-day activates._

_Hermione Granger. It's a relief to know, finally, what she's been hiding. But it's also a burden like I've never known before. I've triumphed. I've built an empire where power and purity of blood are revered and my name is spoken in fear, if at all. I've come all that way only to be defeated—cruel, ignoble thought—by a child. I could see all this at the edges of her thoughts. And it's all happened without my lifting a finger. How is that possible?_

_No form of elaborate trickery can go so far, and so it's all true, and yet it can't be true. I am in control of my fate. Changes can—and will—be made. But I have to wonder how much change... I can't perceive myself as the creature I saw in Hermione's thoughts. Powerful, feared, and yet distorted and wholly lacking in control. How else could it—he—I, meet such an end?_

I will not die!

_Hermione—I'll find a way to make her useful to me. I'll rise higher even than would have been possible without this secret weapon. Hermione is at the center of everything now. She has to be protected. She can't be allowed to go back to her own time. If I have to tear this place down brick by brick I will possess her in every way._

_I can't use the bloody Unforgivables on her. I—_

_She smells and tastes and feels like life itself. I can barely think about it._ It. _I might well be hard for the next fifty days at this rate. And I want more, more... I want to forget all my other plans and kiss her for the rest of time._

_No I don't. No._

—_R_

* * *

The interruption of classes for the first Quidditch game of the season—Slytherin versus Hufflepuff—was a more protracted affair than Hermione recalled from her day, due largely to the separation of male and female students for the duration of the activity. Hermione was so incensed when she learned of it that she let out a cry of derision in the middle of Transfiguration, causing Dumbledore to pause in the process of handing back the class' essays on the principles of human metamorphosis.

"Is there something the matter?" Dumbledore asked politely as Hermione glared daggers at Lestrange and Dolohov, who had been discussing the various advantages of Hogwarts' policies regarding Quidditch.

"Oh I beg your pardon sir, nothing," said Hermione. To Lestrange she added in an undertone, "Are girls not allowed on the House teams, then?"

Lestrange shot her a look of disbelief. "You're interested? A mudblood interested in Quidditch?"

"Not really, but I thought I'd heard something about the Holyhead Harpies earlier this year. Isn't that an all female team?"

"Those stubborn old scags," said Dolohov with disgust. "Won't last long, them. They don't go for that rubbish here at Hogwarts. Girls playing Quidditch! The board of governers'd never go for it. Girls don't even come down to the pitch to watch, do they?"

"That's—that's—" Hermione's indignant splutters were cut short when Lestrange rolled his eyes and edged his chair away from her. For reasons she could not quite explain to herself Hermione turned in her chair to face Riddle at the next table. His eyes were fixed on Lestrange and brimming with disdain.

Before Hermione could decide what to make of his expression, Dumbledore placed her essay on the corner of her desk.

"_E?_" she shrieked, alarming everyone in the vicinity.

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. "Yes, excellent work, Miss Granger."

How did she know, without having to look, that Riddle was smirking?

"Sir," Hermione insisted after the other students had departed, "I really don't understand how this happened. I wrote a roll of parchment and a half more than you asked."

"Your work was by no means lacking in quantity, to be certain," said Dumbledore. "I saw a lack of organization in the structuring of your ideas, however, which accounts for your grade. Perhaps your mind was otherwise engaged."

Hermione gaped at him.

"Come now, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "Exceeding Expectations is not such a disappointment, is it? Now, I fear I must draw your attention elsewhere. Professor Marchbanks has asked me to inform you that your detention will take place next Saturday evening at eight o'clock in the trophy room."

"I—" Hermione swallowed her anger before her sharp tongue could get away from her. "Yes, sir."

She stomped out of the room and was promptly intercepted by Riddle, who had evidently been listening at the door.

"What?" she asked aggressively, hoping to get rid of him before he could drag up any subject she did not wish to discuss. His words still rang in her ears... _How can you stand to have me touch you?_ She had no answer. She, who had memorized the library back to front, had no answer at all.

Instead of berating her, Riddle said, "Detention Saturday after next, was it?"

Hermione nodded, wishing she could be literally anywhere else. He fell into step next to her, looking pensive. They passed a gaggle of third year Ravenclaws, and suddenly he stopped.

"Hello," he said to a small, mousy-haired girl who blushed crimson. His tone was quiet and polite, his eyes mild. It was the face Harry had often described; the one that had won him so many admirers.

"H—hi," stammered the girl, looking down at her toes.

Riddle smiled at her conspiringly and pointed at Professor Marchbanks's classroom door. "Would you mind opening that for me?" When the girl looked confused but obliged he grinned and said, "Excellent."

Without warning he seized the girl's bag and rummaged through its contents while she looked on, dumbfounded. Hermione made to stop him before remembering that in this time he was a prefect and she was not. Having found what she was searching for, Riddle produced a deck of cards designed for exploding snap and tossed it casually into Marchbanks's classroom, sending cards flying in the faces of a group of stragglers and Marchbanks herself.

With a flick of his wand the cards exploded, causing screams to erupt around the classroom. Sparks crackled through the air as fragments of cards scattered left and right, and Marchbanks, whose left eyebrow had been singed off, looked out into the corridor to see Riddle standing there looking most apologetic.

"I really don't know what came over me, Professor," he said guilelessly as she marched up to him, hands on hips. "A prank gone wrong. Truly, I made an error in judgment. I do apologize."

"Well!" stammered Marchbanks, apparently flummoxed by his attitude. "Well, I'm glad you think so, Tom, but I'm afraid I will have to take ten points from Slytherin. And—"

"Oh no need to trouble yourself with coming up with a punishment," said Riddle hurriedly, as though the very last thing he desired was to cause her any inconvenience. "As Head boy I've access to the caretaker's files detailing the procedure for handing out detentions." He gave Hermione a level look. "I can assure you I'll assign myself a suitable punishment. Perhaps cleaning the trophy room some evening? I've noticed it needs tending to."

"Indeed? Yes, well. Yes." Marchbanks tottered away, too flustered to protest. With a wave of his wand Riddle restored the Ravenclaw girl's playing cards to their pristine state and pressed them into her hands with a winning smile.

"Thank you, Cassandra," he said, patting her on the head. "Don't worry, they're good as new." Turning to Hermione he added, "I guess I'll see you in detention, then."

Hermione stared after him for a full thirty seconds after he sauntered off. She had not thought it possible to be even _more_ worried about his behaviour now that he knew her secret, yet it seemed she had thought wrong. What could he possibly be planning to do to her during the course of that detention? She had several ideas, none of which presented themselves as remotely acceptable.

On impulse Hermione turned toward the staircase that would lead back down to the Slytherin common room. With all the boys in the school headed to the Quidditch pitch she had a perfect opportunity to enact a plan that had been coalescing in the back of her mind since she had seen Riddle's memories. She had been unsure whether she dared to try it yet, but his unbearable goading decided her.

As fast as her feet would carry her she raced down to the seventh year boys' dormitory and pushed open the door, delighted to find it unlocked and unprotected by any password. The founders really _had _put a lot of trust in girls.

Of course now that Riddle knew who she was he was bound to have disguised his possessions, particularly such an important one as his diary. She combed through his trunk and four-poster bed inch by inch to no avail. All she could find were a number of old Muggle books like _Cinderella_ and _Jack and the Beanstalk _which had certainly been left behind by a previous occupant of the room, because...

Because no self-respecting Slytherin nowadays would ever touch them.

"Oh, you'll have to do better than that!" she whispered triumphantly, picking up the heaviest of the books. She could feel it now, if she stood very still: the same malevolent heartbeat she remembered from Slytherin's locket. She tapped the cover with her wand, muttering "_Specialis Revelio!_" and with a faint _pop_ the book in her hands transformed back into the small black diary she remembered from Harry's second year.

_I'm holding a horcrux in my hands,_ she thought with some disgust. And yet there was no question of destroying it, as without it Dumbledore would never later have cottoned on to the existence of the rest of them. She wondered again if any of her actions could really impact the future she knew, and determined not to test the idea.

Hermione plucked a quill from an ink pot on Riddle's desk and opened the diary to the first page. Of course it had been wiped magically blank to any eyes but his. She paused with her quill tip hanging an inch from the page. Everything so far had been so easy. Too easy, she decided. It was almost as though Tom had known what she would do and set her up to succeed.

Of course he had.

_My name is Romilda Vane,_ she wrote at the top of the page. She waited, and after a moment the ink vanished, imbibed by the paper.

_Hello Romilda Vane,_ the diary returned, _my name is Tom Riddle._

Hermione thought for a moment and wrote, _That's funny. I know a boy at school called Tom Riddle._

_How curious. Can I ask how you came by this diary?_

_I found it in my common room._ She waited, counting to three in her head. _Well, not exactly in my common room. I found it in a girl's bag and took it. Was that bad?_

_No, Romilda. It sounds as though maybe this girl shouldn't have had it either._

Grinning, Hermione wrote, _Oh Granger's hateful. She thinks she's so clever all the time._

_Would you happen to mean Hermione Granger?_ the diary asked, and Hermione's heart began to race. So he had written about her in his diary, had he? Perhaps she had found a way to discover what he had planned for her. And perhaps she wanted very badly to know what he had written.

_Yes!_ She wrote. _She's such a snob and she almost never talks to anyone. And she told me Tom Riddle couldn't be trusted._

There was a pause longer than the others, and then...

_You can trust me, Romilda. Would you like me to show you?_

Hermione burned with triumph.

_Yes,_ she wrote.

It was just like Harry had described. The pages turned rapidly of their own accord until the date read _Sept. 1__st__, 1944._ A curious sort of schism appeared at the center of the diary, growing and growing until the light consumed Hermione and she fell forward into the world of Riddle's memories. She lurched to her feet in the middle of the Hogwarts Express and felt disoriented for only a moment before flattening herself against a wall to avoid a gaggle of Slytherins who almost bowled her over. But that was unnecessary: they could not touch her. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. She was here for a reason. There was something she needed to discover.

"Had a good summer, Tom?" asked one of the Slytherins sycophantically, entering a compartment which was empty except for Tom Riddle, seated quietly by the window. The sky outside was growing dark, and Hermione could only assume that he had already finished his prefect duties.

"Nothing special," Tom replied. Marvolo's ring glinted on his finger.

"Lot 'o quiet studying then, eh?" said one of the boys—a sixth year, Hermione thought. Emeritus Flint. The others snickered at the idea of their leader spending such a stretch of time in uneventful anonymity. Hermione seated herself at the end of the bench, across from Flint and next to Mulciber and Avery, but her eyes were drawn to the Head Boy. It was strange to be able to sit near him unobserved; to allow her eyes to wander wherever they pleased. The pang in her chest when he looked right through her, unseeing, was quite disproportionate to the event.

"Something like that," Tom replied. It was a wonder his cronies did not notice his obvious lack of interest in their conversation.

A sudden jolt shook the compartment. Tom sat up, immediately alert, while Avery and Flint paled. There was a screeching sound somewhere nearby and Gibbon poked his head into the compartment.

"Seen this, boys?" he asked with some trepidation.

"What is it?" asked Mulciber.

"Someone's gone and bloody tampered with the wheels two compartments down. Full of first years. Conductor's gone and vanished too, I reckon. Nowhere to be found."

All eyes turned to Tom, who stood and exited into the narrow hall in no great hurry. Hermione scampered behind him as he neared the problematic compartment and appraised it for a moment.

"The doors have been sealed," he observed calmly.

"Hufflepuff, the bloody lot of them," sneered Avery, gazing at the terrified looking first years through the compartment window. "Couple Mudbloods, too."

Tom rounded on him with a look of pure disgust.

"I think it would reflect poorly on me to allow them to be killed, don't you?" he said icily.

"Of—of course," stammered Avery, backtracking at once. "I didn't mean—"

"Go and see if you can drum up some adults," Tom interrupted. "They can't all have disappeared."

After the other Slytherins had scurried away Tom apparated directly out of the compartment. Hermione looked around in alarm until she heard his footsteps on the roof and let out a shaky laugh. The sheer nerve of him... She attempted to apparate but her hopes in this memory-world were not high, and she was indeed unable to move an inch. Instead she simply walked through a wall and up a railing on the outside of the train, a little unnerved at being unable to feel the wind on her skin. Once on the roof she found Tom standing several yards away, overlooking the gap from one compartment to the next. The autumn air rushed around him, whipping his hair and cloak about, but he looked perfectly at ease.

"You're unbelievable, you know!" Hermione shouted at him, glad that there was no chance he would hear. "Maddening. Impossible. I've never quite—_What are you doing?_"

All of a sudden he took several steps forward, so that it seemed his feet were just dangling on the edge of the gap. He wore a look of frank curiosity mingled with amusement. Hermione stepped forward and caught a glimpse of a figure in a dark cloak hanging onto the side of the train just above the wheel which was whining in protest against the steel tracks and emitting bright orange sparks. Though Tom must have seen the intruder's face, Hermione missed it, as they had pulled up their hood just when she approached. The compartment with which the stranger had tampered was at least the train's very last, so that no others were in danger. Hermione reassured herself that if anyone had died on the Hogwarts Express she would surely have heard about it at some time during the year.

"What _are_ you doing?" Tom asked quietly, eying the cloaked figure and raising his wand. The wind snatched his words away almost immediately but Hermione was glad she had gotten this one chance to see him when he was alone. To hear the raw thirst—for knowledge, life, _everything_—in his voice when he was not playing a part for an audience.

He sent a spell at the stranger which narrowly missed. Hermione was quite certain that they knew who he was, because they disapparated at once. Tom apparated down to the space they had just vacated and pressed his wand to the wheel while Hermione lay flat on her stomach on the roof, the better to observe him.

"You have no right, you know," she yelled at him, words unheard. _No right to look so bloody heroic..._ It was patently wrong. It gave her the same sort of swooping feeling in her stomach as when he had kissed her—Oh, that kiss, that bloody kiss.

But some things were simply not meant to be acknowledged.

Tom's wand twirled and spun gracefully in his hand as he tried a number of unsuccessful spells on the wheel. He looked, for the first time, faintly frustrated as the wheel began to hiss and smoke. The whole compartment was lurching slightly now from side to side.

Hermione could tell that some very unusual form of curse must have been placed on the wheel. At length a calculating look passed over Tom's face and he uttered an unintelligible spell Hermione did not know, causing the wheel to glow an eerie purple for a moment and then straighten itself, good as new. There were cheers and a few tearful cries of delight from the first years who had been poking their heads out of the compartment window. Without a word Tom apparated back into the train.

Hermione made to follow him but it was at this moment that she was propelled upwards, spinning dizzyingly through space until she landed with a thud back in the boys' dormitory.

"Oh my," she said quietly to herself, gazing at the diary in awe. Unless she was mistaken, she had just discovered a spell powerful enough to fix her time turner.

Now all that remained was finding a way to make Tom tell her what it was.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Surprise, early update! I know it's only been like three days but we broke 100 reviews today and I felt like celebrating. Plus I've had a really shit week and reading your ever-lovely reviews would cheer me up :) Alas I've now finally run out of pre-written chapters so updates will be _slightly_ slower from now on, but not too much I hope. Weekly to bi-weekly at the VERY most, I should think... I am so thankful to all of you for your thoughtful, amusing reviews: **UnattainableDarkAngel, Dodge'89, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, BarbarafromGR, Kyrie Twilight, brighteyes2889, MissWinter, IDanceToForget, 372259, Queen Freak** ... Can't believe we made it to 100! Thanks to you I could cast a perfect patronus right now.

Quick side note: Magnus Hirschfeld was a real life German physician and advocate for sexual minorities who was chased out of Germany by the Nazis. Although he died in 1935 I use his name here because he was a badass and Magnus sounds very wizard-ly, and who knows, if he was a wizard he could have faked his death...

Listen to "Happiness" by HURTS with this chapter. Oh and one last thing, as a reward/celebration for the 100 reviews, this is the chapter where the M rating kicks in. Nothing too major at all, but just so you know, if anyone wants to skip those parts. Cheers!

**CHAPTER TEN**

_It didn't bloody work!_

_Everything was set for Hermione to come snooping through my things and find this diary, and then I would have had her. But something got buggered along the way. I can feel the wards were replaced, so she must have found it. And what? Outsmarted me again? She must have investigated under a false name. I enchanted this damned thing to react to "Hermione Granger." Under any other name it will simply have tried to gain her trust or some such trifle, which is a long lost cause. Oh, she's good. Under other circumstances I'd be quite impressed, and eager to eliminate her as a possible threat. _

_Under any other circumstances._

_She was in my dormitory, looking through my private possessions (I did mean her to, but it still makes my blood boil)... She might have opened my books, she might have been humming to herself—she does that—and pushing her hair back, like always when she's thinking. I can smell her, just faintly, in the room. If I'd caught her I would have run the risk of throwing her onto my bed and never letting her leave. And I know—after that night in the Room of Requirement—I know she wouldn't have minded. She would have purred in my ear again and I would have—_

_That's really enough of that._

_I'm trying a different tactic, once again. I've written to Magnus Hirschfeld, the magical theoreticist whose article about the countless dimensions of time in_ Transfiguration Today _caused such a stir last year. I've yet to hear back but I think he'll find my thesis convincing (Slughorn did, he practically pissed himself). I believe he'll be able to help me, if unknowingly, to prevent Hermione's attempts to return to her time. Whatever she's doing, I have to find out what it is, and I have to stop her. I will stop her._

_A funny sort of question occurs to me: Won't she be angry when I reveal my plan? Wont' she mind? Well, that's not my concern, it's hers. I must succeed. But the thought of her pulling away from me, hating me more than she already does... And she does, of course. Having seen her memories, I can hardly blame her. It's a wonder she'll even talk to me, even do—any of the things she's done. I feel..._

_I don't feel grateful to her for it, no. Amused, surprised, satisfied. No. I can't quite put it into words. But certainly whatever it is won't last long once I've imprisoned her in this time she clearly wants to leave. It makes me uneasy to think of it._

_And that in itself is reason enough to go forward with my plan, because I don't—she can't be allowed to make me second-guess myself like some heartsick first year, for God's sake. Just because she makes my skin prickle with a single look._

_It will pass. Because I will it to._

—_R_

* * *

Over the course of her year on the run with Harry and Ron, Hermione had become used to deciding for herself what she did and when she did it. It felt a little odd, therefore, to report to a stern looking Marchbanks for detention in the trophy room, attempting to look contrite when she was nothing but irritated. Luckily Tom was already here, his face a picture of mortification for Marchbanks's benefit.

She and Tom had been locked in an odd sort of dance since the scene between them in the Room of Requirement. It seemed that they were more cordial to one another than before, at least in public, though Hermione was hard put to understand why. She sensed that their dynamic had shifted and that both were wary of attracting suspicion now that a cause for suspicion had been brought to light on both counts. Hermione half feared—expected, wished—that he would try to corner her in her room again at night, when she was at a disadvantage. When nothing of the sort occurred she reflected that he might be waiting for her to be out of her room so that he could search it for artifacts from the future. Thus she began to wear the useless time turner around her neck at all times for safekeeping. She spent fruitless hours in the library researching the spell he might have used on the Hogwarts Express, but to her dismay the library failed her.

The memory of their kiss haunted her.

"Now," said Marchbanks in a commanding voice, though the effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that she only came up to Hermione's shoulder when standing her tallest. "I know that you are both model students who perhaps fell prey these past weeks to a bout of poor judgment."

Hermione met Tom's eyes in spite of herself and she stifled a small chuckle as he raised an eyebrow delicately. Model student, indeed. It was disconcerting to find herself sharing a private joke with him, so she looked away, remembering all her night-time escapades with Harry and Ron under the cloak. Perhaps she was not such a model student either. The thought did not bother her much. The well-behaved eleven year old in her never would have broken into Gringott's and escaped on a dragon.

"So I expect you both to take this as an opportunity to reflect on your actions," Marchbanks went on. "You are to clean and polish each award. The use of magic will, of course, be prohibited. I'll have your wands for now."

Hermione handed over her wand with great reluctance. She felt naked without it, vulnerable; Marchbanks might as well have taken her arm. Next to her, Tom's face was as blank as she had ever seen it, which meant that he too was unhappy with the arrangement.

When at last Marchbanks had left and Appolyon Pringle (the caretaker, a man with a truly venomous sneer and a constitutional hatred of rule breaking that seemed to come with the territory) had brought them a pair of filthy rags and pail of foul-smelling polish, Hermione and Tom faced one another in silence. Hermione was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that this was the first time they had been alone together since the Room of Requirement.

"You can feel it too," he said abruptly, allowing his eyes to wander over her, unabashed.

Hermione was startled by his frankness. Her cheeks flushed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's some sort of pull whenever you're there." He looked vaguely frustrated. "You're very bad for me, you know."

Hermione could not believe what she was hearing. "I'd argue strongly that _you're_ the one who's bad for _me._"

"I'm sure you would."

They lapsed into tense silence once more. Oh, how had she let it get this way? Inwardly forcing herself to calm down, Hermione began to walk slowly about the room, taking care to look around as casually as possible. Her newest plan required absolute delicacy.

"Tom Riddle," she read off a plaque in a glass case she had seen before, many years ago. "Special award for services to the school. You got this one for framing Hagrid for Myrtle's murder."

"She wasn't actually mean to die," said Tom lightly. "I didn't realize she was there until it was too late."

"Oh yes, I'm sure your intentions for a _basilisk_ were completely innocent."

"My intention was to go after Alphard Black, the Head that year. He was meant to be petrified until I could get my hands on some gold of his; transfer it to Lestrange—his own fortune is locked up until he comes of age. I needed it for something. Do you really think I'd draw attention to myself with that Myrtle girl in such a reckless way?"

She could not tell whether he was lying. Ominously, though, she found that she _wanted_ to believe him.

"Did you know your basilisk petrified me in second year?" Hermione asked, matching his light tone. There was a bizarre, deadly sort of pleasure in their being completely open about who and what they were.

"Are you expecting me to say I'm sorry?"

"No." In the silence that followed she resumed her examination of the trophies. "Here's another. Tom Riddle. Inter-House Quidditch championship. I didn't know you played Quidditch."

"Only in third year. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

She considered him carefully. "Is it possible you were just _bored?_"

"It's possible."

"And you won the Quidditch cup. Is there anything that _doesn't_ come easily to you?"

"No."

How she wanted to laugh. Fighting down the impulse savagely, Hermione asked, "Why isn't there anything here about you saving those first years on the train?"

"What are you talking about?"

She gaped at him. "There's no need to play stupid, Tom. You know I know everything about you."

He looked angry now.

"I think time travel must have addled your brain. Not surprising, considering the probable difficulty of the spellwork to send you here. I'll grant your conjuring Slytherin was impressive, but this must have been even more—"

"What are you on about?" interrupted Hermione, diverted.

"Well, as the invention has yet to surface I don't know exactly what incantation you used to appear here. But seeing as you claim to be stranded, I presume you haven't been able to use it again."

She glared, attempting to hide her amusement at the completely erroneous conclusions he had drawn.

"If you're angling for information you'll have to do better than that. Do you really think I'm going to tell you how I came here?"

"Eventually you will, yes," he replied with an infuriating amount of certainty.

"Don't hold your breath."

"You could make this much easier on yourself, Hermione. Just tell me what you want in exchange for what you know. I could give you anything. I could kill your enemies; give you power, wealth, station; make you scream—"

"That's enough. I'd die before I'd help you."

"That could be arranged too."

"Oh, could it? I thought _those_ spells were giving you a bit of difficulty these days."

Tom opened his mouth to retort then seemed to swallow his words, breathing heavily. All at once he straightened up and carelessly smoothed the front of his robes.

"Well, I'll be going then," he said.

"_What?_"

"She comes by this time every night. It's the perfect opportunity."

"She? You're—you're just going to leave?"

"I'll be back before Marchbanks checks in. Would you take care of all this, then?" He waved around at the room.

"That'll take hours!"

He rolled his eyes. "The spell is _Scourgify._"

"Marchbanks took our wands, you know that."

He turned at the door and a look of vague concentration came over his face. The water in the pail began to ripple lightly, and the torches on the walls flickered.

Suddenly every trophy was sparkling clean.

Bemused, Hermione watched him leave and followed after only a moment's hesitation, disillusioning herself for good measure.

He moved swiftly through the corridors and soon vanished from sight, so that she got lost several times before she could get her bearings. When at last she came upon him he was standing in an empty classroom talking to beautiful and austere looking ghost.

"... toying with me, aren't you Helena?" he was saying coyly. He had turned on his charm full blast.

"I don't know, Tom, I—" the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw faltered.

"I _understand._ You can tell me."

With a shock that rooted her to the spot Hermione realized the he was about to learn the location of Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem. And she could stop him, if she chose. She could cause a disturbance or race forward to interrupt, and potentially prevent the creation of a horcrux.

But there would always be more fabulous artifacts to steal and enchant. There had to be a better way to affect events.

So instead Hermione turned and stole back through the dark corridors into the trophy room, where she spent the remainder of the detention reading plaques listing the exploits of long dead students. She turned, startled, just in time to see Tom return an hour later, and she knew at once that he had gotten the information he wanted. There was a look of wild joy about him and his face blazed from across the room. Merlin, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. He strode up to Hermione without preamble and pressed her against the cool wooden ledge of a nearby table, seizing her chin and tilting it up. It was unexpected and disorienting and—and incomparable, wasn't it?

No.

It couldn't be.

He reached roughly under her sweater and bit at the skin behind her ear, whispering words unheard against her skin. And it occurred to her that he was not quite in control of his actions. He had won a great victory with Helena Ravenclaw and he was drunk with triumph, unable to ignore his instincts.

She sighed involuntarily when he fisted one of his hands in her hair, and the sound brought her back to reality.

"Stop," she croaked, ripping herself away and staggering against a wall. He looked at her with undisguised hunger, his cheeks flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She left, unable to wait until he was out of earshot before breaking into a run.

That night Hermione dreamed that she was in Greenhouse three, creeping between rows of slumbering vines. The wan light of dusk filtered through the grimy windows, giving the room a gloomy air, and she could not shake the feeling that something was following her.

"Lost?" asked a cool voice somewhere to her left, and Tom stepped into view.

"What are you doing here? It's past curfew," she said uncertainly. But was it? Wasn't she dreaming? It was difficult to tell.

"Whatever you say, darling," he said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. Definitely dreaming.

"This is tiresome," said Hermione wearily. "How do I get you out of my head?"

Without warning a trio of vines lashed out, winding themselves around her upper arms and her neck and pinning her to a wall. It did not hurt much—definitely dreaming—but she cried out, startled.

"You can't get me out," said Tom pleasantly, examining her with amusement as he circled the table. "Because you don't want to. Do you, _darling?_"

"You have no idea what you're talking about, you bastard," she retorted, because it was a dream and so she could throw caution to the wind and say whatever she pleased—what could happen? And above all, something snapped inside her when he spoke the word _darling_ so gently. "You think I'd have anything to do with a murderer if I didn't need you for information?"

He reacted violently, throwing the table aside as though it weighed no more than air and stalking up to her in a rapid, jerky way.

"Don't call me that," he said in a warning tone.

"What, murderer? _Bastard?_"

"DON'T!"

This was the real face of Tom Riddle. Hermione's breath hitched. It was not handsome but raw and untempered and full of a visceral power that would probably never exist in anyone else again. It had the same palpable draw as the veiled archway in the Department of Mysteries, except that she had felt it but very faintly then. Now it was impossible to look away. She had never had a dream like this...

If it was _her_ dream then why was he acting so oddly? So different from how she knew him?

The truth dawned and she cried, "It's you! You've broken into my dreams!"

"How else was I supposed to get through to you, darling?"

"But how could you? Sleep precludes Legilimency by nature. There can't be any concentration, any eye contact."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But it seems like the rules have been bent where you and I are concerned."

Hadn't the same once been true of Voldemort and Harry? Hermione's stomach gave a queer lurch. She and Tom had spent too much time together, become too attuned to one another. It ought to have sickened her, but she could see miles ahead of the baser implications. She could make much of this.

"I have to do something," she said. "How do I wake myself up? Can I do that?"

"Not quite yet," he said silkily.

All of a sudden Hermione became aware that his hand had slipped under the hem of her nightgown and was grazing up her leg, slowly tracing a pattern along the inside of her thigh. He never broke eye contact as his fingers trailed up, up, pushing aside her knickers, and then—

"Oh!" Hermione gasped, biting her lip. The vines held her in place, but in any case she was not quite struggling to get free.

Riddle leaned closer. "Yes?" he murmured in her ear, and began moving his fingers, torturously slowly.

_It's only a dream. Just a dream._

Was it really, if both of them were conscious? She bit her lip painfully hard, and it _felt_ real. His hand felt very real, the only real thing she had ever known, and without meaning to Hermione became aware that she had already capitulated. _Just this once,_ she told herself. _It's only a dream._ Just this once she would give in to him, because it was not real, and because she could sense that she might slowly be starting to win him over, and because she bloody _wanted_ to. There had never been a want like this in her before.

"What is it, Hermione? Tell me," he insisted, moving his hand faster.

Her breathing was shallow; her cheeks were burning. That same electric tension was building in her abdomen as the day he had recited Slytherin's sonnet to her, but it was different now, it was more. It was impossible to think, to examine it rationally when he was touching her, his fingers moving rhythmically, and goose bumps were flashing over her skin in unsteady waves.

A garbled sound escaped her that was too primal to be a word, and he _smirked_, moving his thumb in time with his fingers, brushing against her until she could not stop herself from crying out.

"Yes," he repeated, just against her ear.

"I—No—I don't—" the tension inside her broke and she was trembling from head to toe, gasping, heaving in great lungfulls of air, and the greenhouse was wavering around her. It was dissipating into nothingness until all that remained was Tom, and then even he was gone—

Hermione awoke screaming. Not in fear, not in pain, but something else entirely. She fisted her hands into the covers as waves of bliss rippled through her and she bit her lip again, tasting blood.

_No, no, no, no, no, no._

"Hermione?"

_NO!_

"Ron?" She struggled to catch her breath and sat up, pulling the mirror out of her dresser.

"Yeah, I—Are you all right?" Ron's voice was perplexed. "We heard screaming."

She could feel her cheeks burning. "I had a... bad dream."

"Oh."

Hermione was at a loss. Ron had been absent so long. _Why now?_

"Fleur's pregnant. We were having a party," explained Harry's voice as though he had read her mind.

"That's wonderful," said Hermione hoarsely, an inexplicable lump rising in her throat. They were having a party: life in her own time was going on without her, of course it was. "Give her and Bill my congratulations."

"What were you dreaming about?" Ron asked sharply.

"What do you think?" she said, weakly attempting bravado. She was not at all sure she had pulled it off.

"Well look, Hermione," said Harry. "I've been meaning to ask you, because we're getting really close to working something out with Malfoy's time turner—Dumbledore's portrait's been a real help. So time turners will melt down if they're overextended, right?"

"Right," Hermione agreed cautiously.

"Well, why don't we just meet in the middle?" Hermione aimed a very skeptical silence at the mirror, and he pressed on. "No, listen, because the time turner you're getting from this Dagmar bloke won't be as strong as ours, since he's just experimenting, right? It might get you, what, ten or twenty years? But ours should manage a trip like that without breaking down. So we come pick you up some time in the 1960's and hopefully make it back here all right."

"But that's a big risk! What if something goes wrong?"

"Well we're not leaving you trapped there any longer than we have to."

The fierce solidarity in his voice made her heart ache. She took a deep breath.

"Harry, I think... maybe I should stay here a bit longer."

"What?" Harry and Ron chorused at once.

Steeling herself, Hermione said, "I think if I stayed I might, er, be able to change his mind about... things. You know, T—Riddle."

"Hermione, are you joking?" cried harry while Ron made a strangled, choking noise. "That's not—"

"Please just hear me out—"

"Don't be daft, you know he's never going to change, he _can't_—"

"I've learned some things recently—"

"Trust me, I _know_ him—"

"I've been living with him for months now, Harry, so you might consider I know a bit more about him than you do—"

"I've seen his thoughts—"

"So have I!" She groaned impatiently. "I'm sorry, Harry, but the man whose thoughts you shared was a monster beyond hope of repair. He'd been trapped alone in Albania for ten years going madder than ever before he came back. In the Muggle world isolation is considered a form of torture. It's just... _it's just such a waste!_" Now that she had let it slip in a rush, she realized that this had been weighing on her heaviest of all. "Tom Riddle has all Voldemort's power but he's not impulsive, or reckless, or blinded by rage, like Voldemort. When I think of all he could do if he didn't turn to the dark arts..."

"He turned dark long before Hogwarts, Hermione. He was always going to be that way."

"Says who? It can't be that he never even had a _choice_—"

"Are you asking us to feel sorry for him?" Ron began in a dangerous voice.

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. All I'm saying is Tom isn't the same as Voldemort yet, and I think—"

"Ginny said you'd do this," said Ron darkly.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Harry interrupted. "Hermione, I—Look, we trust you, but... Even if you were onto something, and I don't think... Well, he wouldn't exactly be receptive, would he? Let's be honest, he can't be that different."

"He's—Going—To—Kill—You," Ron ground out.

She swallowed. "He can't us Unforgivables on me."

There was a stunned silence.

"Well he might have _told_ you that," Harry began.

"No, I mean he tried, and he _couldn't_. The Cruciatus."

"But—it's—" Ron spluttered. "He'll change his tune if he finds out you're, you know, Muggle-born."

"He knows."

"What?"

"He already knows," Hermione repeated quietly. At last Harry and Ron seemed unable to say anything. "Wouldn't it be worth it? If there was even the smallest chance—a chance in a million—that I could be right? Think of everyone who could be saved. Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Dumbledore, Sirius, Dobby."

She knew that he was struggling to find an answer. Ron, too. She could picture their faces, drawn and shocked and worried. And yet they were so very, very far away now.

"No," said Harry at last, surprising her. "What's happened has happened, Hermione, and we can't change that. Believe me, I wish we could as much as you do. But the risk you'd be bringing on yourself if you're wrong..."

_But I'm not wrong,_ she thought with more certainty than she had realized she felt until that very moment.

"_Your parents_, Harry," she insisted.

"You _can't_ go through with this, Hermione," Ron chimed in. "You just can't."

"I'm sorry," she breathed, as tonelessly as she could manage. "But that's my decision, not yours."

He had no answer for her. Her room suddenly felt stifling and far too small. She dropped the mirror on her bed, wrapped her cloak around herself, and raced out past the common room into the dungeons, desperate to clear her head. A noise like distant footsteps sounded somewhere behind her and she realized that it was not yet so very late in the evening—just a little before midnight. Lestrange and Avery might still be doing prefects' rounds. She scurried up the staircase to the Entrance Hall to avoid detection, hardly caring that she had no shoes on or that the winter air bit at her exposed skin. She had not brought the Map with her, so she failed to notice, absorbed as she was in her thoughts, the dark figure walking in her direction until it was too late. She collided painfully with Alastor Moody and staggered back, clutching at her head.

"The 'effing hell are you doing here?" he barked at her, though by this standards this was nearly polite.

"Wanted to get some fresh air," she mumbled evasively. "What are _you_ doing out after hours?"

He shrugged. "Got curious. I could see the lights from Gryffindor tower."

"What lights?"

Moody nodded through the window of the Entrance Hall, out into the grounds, and Hermione's heart leapt somewhere into the vicinity of her throat.

The lights were on in the gamekeeper's cabin.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** What up Muggles? I don't want to say for sure one way or the other, but there is a possibility I may have eaten an entire gallon of ice cream in one weekend and am now in need of serious therapy. Luckily, fanfic is much cheaper than so-called "conventional" psychiatry, amirite? Ugh, what a horrible shorthand, you won't ever see me do that again. Guys, I'm sorry I haven't been keeping up with answering everybody's PM's. Work has been crazy. But on the plus side this is sort of a ninja-fast update! And it contains an absolutely massive diary entry. I know, I'm awesome, but you can feel free to tell me anyway. Now to thank my lovely reviewers: **IDanceToForget, AdoreTheAngel, douglasbailey7946, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, PashN, UnattainableDarkAngel, BarbarafromGR, Dodge'89, brighteyes2889, The One He Never Feared, BowArrows, morpheusandmuse, Manda**... I was going to write each of you a song, but like, I sort of got caught up watching an X-Files marathon. Don't be mad okay?

Er, I'm taking some small liberties with historical facts in this chapter. Just some generalizations and some events a few days off. Nitpicky stuff, really, but I'm sorry to any history buffs who might be bothered. Soundtrack for this chapter: "Après Moi" by Reigna Spektor (Is the music thing working for anyone or is it just annoying? Let me know)

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Hermione did not run across the grounds; she sprinted. Unmindful of the strong likelihood that Hagrid would be alarmed by her intrusion, she arrived at the gamekeeper's cabin and began to hammer at the door with both fists while Moody stood warily behind her, shuffling his feet and looking as though he would quite like to hide in the pumpkin patch.

At length the door was thrown wide open and Hermione grinned at the sight of a fifteen year old Hagrid, looking gobsmacked and holding a heavy club. He was already well over eight feet tall and yet to Hermione he seemed strangely diminished.

"Listen, I ain't lookin' fer no trouble," he muttered, his beetle-black eyes darting suspiciously from Hermione to Moody.

"Of course not," said Hermione brightly. "We're just here to, er, welcome you to Hogwarts. Can we come in?"

Hagrid eyed Moody, whom he appeared to recognize, and he stepped grudgingly aside.

"Welcome me ter the castle, eh?" he repeated, closing the door quickly behind them. "Haven't had the ruddy job five minutes..." He pulled out a few boulder-sized chairs for them before receding into a shadowy corner of his cabin. "All the charges were dropped, see? I never did nothin' ter that poor Myrtle girl—"

"Hagrid," said Hermione firmly, "don't worry about that. We believe you. Don't we Alastor?"

Hagrid frowned and looked Hermione over. "Don't remember yeh from before. New student, are yeh?"

"Something like that. My name is Hermione Granger. And if anyone tries to give you a hard time about Myrtle, Hagrid, you come straight to me. I'll see to them."

"I reckon Dumbledore'll make sure I'm fine an' all," he replied gruffly.

"Dumbledore. Yes." Hermione toyed restlessly with the hem of her sleeve. "Well listen Hagrid, while we're here, how much do you know about the Phoenix population in Great Britain?"

Hagrid looked taken aback. "There isn't one, far's I know. Only 'bout four or five o' the poor creatures left in the world, all told. Why's it yeh want to know?"

"Because I have reason to believe Dumbledore is trying to acquire one, and his methods interest me very much."

Hagrid drew himself up to full height so that his head grazed the beams holding up the wooden ceiling. Hermione could only assume that the cabin would be enlarged some time before her arrival at Hogwarts as a first year, otherwise it would become quite unfit to house his bulk.

"Professor Dumbledore's a great man, Miss Granger, a great man," he said menacingly, as though Hermione had implied that Dumbledore made it a habit to steal from blind children and push elderly ladies into the streets. "I won't be hearin' a bad word on him in this house, yeh can be sure o' that. Why, he—"

But Hagrid broke off, subsiding into embarrassed muttering and glancing uncomfortably at Hermione and Moody.

"We know he let you return to the castle after the business with Myrtle and with your mother being a—well a Giantesse, and all that," said Hermione gently, trying to be helpful. However this seemed to be quite the wrong thing to say. Hagrid wailed in alarm and backed even further away from her.

"How d'yeh know about—about my mum?" he bellowed.

"It's perfectly all right!" Hermione assured him in a small voice. "There's nothing wrong with it. And we won't tell anyone. Right Alastor?"

Moody seized her upper arm by way of response and dragged her unceremoniously to the door, muttering "I need to talk to you." Nodding briefly to Hagrid, he pulled Hermione outside and faced her as though seeing her for the first time.

"What?" asked Hermione a little defensively, shivering against the winter air in her nightgown.

"There's something off about you," said Moody bluntly. "Couldn't figure it out 'till just now. You know things that don't make no sense. You don't act nothing like a student. Unnerving, that's what you are."

Hermione gaped at him.

"Well," Moody went on impatiently. "You spend all this time with Riddle, don't you? The rest of the idiots at this school might not see it but I sure as hell do. Dodgy as anything, that bloke. So what is it? Are you working for him or something?"

"No!" Hermione exclaimed, breathing a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation. "I would never—"

_Liar, liar, liar!_

She gulped. "It's difficult to explain, but I—If I'm being honest I don't really come from the Salem Institute."

Moody snorted.

"I've sort of been forced here, into Hogwarts. Trapped. And the reason I've been needing your help keeping tabs on Dumbledore and all that is because he's meant to be helping me find a way home. But there have been signs—sort of _messages_, I suppose—that he might not be living up to his word. I want to know why. And everything points to the involvement of Fawkes, er, I mean a Phoenix of some kind."

Moody gave no indication that he either believed or did not believe her. He gave her a long, shrewd look and his lips tilted down at the ends as though he was steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"Never told you how I got this eye, have I?" he asked at last, pointing to his magical eye which swiveled rapidly from side to side. Hermione shook her head. "I was seven. Wandered off on a family outing in Hydra. That's in—"

"Greece," Hermione interrupted impatiently. "I know. Go on."

"Ended up in this little patch of wilderness near a beach, just walking 'round, digging, you know. None the wiser. Never saw them coming up behind me 'till it was too late."

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth in horror.

"Not people," Moody continued as though he could sense her thoughts. "These two great big fiery creatures—Phoenixes. They were at each other's throats, screeching and clawing. Most brilliant thing I'd ever seen. I didn't have the sense to be scared 'till they were right on top of me, and then I couldn't do anything 'cause they were everywhere. There was fire and ash and one of them sort of lunged at the other and caught me on the side of the face at the same time. I was blinded for a bit and I guess I collapsed."

"What happened?" whispered Hermione when he paused.

Moody shrugged. "Dunno. 'S the thing about Phoenixes, isn't it? No one knows how they're really born or how they die. We're not _allowed_ to know, I reckon. Took me years to even remember how it happened 'cause something sort of jumbled up my mind. But when I woke up my mum was shaking me and one of the two birds was gone, just a pile of ash on the ground. Never resuscitated. And the sand I was laying on'd turned to glass in some places."

"Well, Dumbledore was an old friend of my uncle's and he heard about it. Got a friend of his, Magnus Hirschfeld, to design this eye for me, 'cause I'd lost mine. I'm grateful to him, mind. But listen to me, Hermione. If you've got yourself involved in something to do with Phoenixes, here's what you do: Stop. Get yourself out of it now and don't look back. It's not worth it."

Hermione stared at him in wonder, her mind already racing ahead.

"This is so much new information, Alastor!" she said, beaming. "Thank you. This is really excellent."

She ducked quickly back into the cabin, climbed onto a chair and stood on tiptoe to kiss Hagrid on the cheek. "Take good care of yourself, Hagrid, all right?" she told him before rushing away, melting a path through the snow with her wand all the way back to the castle. Before she was out of earshot she could have sworn she heard Moody mutter to Hagrid, "Mental, that one."

* * *

_Today was Christmas._

_At Wool's the old bat always used to make us sing hymns on Christmas morning like a band of superstitious louts. I have no use for hymns, or for Christmas in general. The decorations, the feasts, the gifts—all wastes of time. And who would send me gifts, anyway? When I was in first year I received a package of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans at the foot of my bed Christmas morning. They'd been sent anonymously, but it was clear enough they came from Dumbledore. I never touched them, and the senile old fool didn't try it again._

_I do enjoy the holidays, though, if only because the castle is quiet. Empty of the usual babbling masses. I'm free to wander the corridors unmolested by imbeciles trying to win my favor. Traditionally I'm the only Slytherin in my year who stays at school over the break, and that suits me just fine. I'd rather spend my days in uninterrupted contemplation of the years to come than be forced to inane conversation with my housemates about the gifts they expect from home and snowball fights and mistletoe and all that nonsense._

_I have no use for Christmas. I did get curious, however, when I saw Hermione sitting alone in the grounds, enchanting a pine tree to glow red and gold. Of course I did._

_My feet carried me to her, though I'm not sure I remember consciously deciding to seek her out. She was flushed from the cold and smiling. I like her that way: just like she was in the dream I gave her. I watched her for a while without announcing myself, though I think she knew I was there. The fairy lights she was conjuring and levitating into the tree were perfect, true to form. A flawless incantation._

_And then she told me, completely out of the blue, that she was a Gryffindor._

_Well, I had surmised as much. Does she think I'm an idiot? There aren't exactly many Muggle-born Slytherins (Why doesn't it bother me anymore, this supposed weakness of hers, this unavoidable question of her parentage? Have I grown used to the idea or is it that I simply can't escape my knowledge that she isn't weak? Salazar Slytherin said as much, I heard it from his very mouth.) And she's far too intelligent to be a Hufflepuff, yet somehow I knew Ravenclaw didn't fit the bill either. She has all these ridiculous notions of honor and righteousness that come to the surface when she's too angry to contain herself properly._

_She looked at me, finally, and—I remember everything she said._

_She told me, "Tomorrow General George S. Patton will launch an attack to free Allied soldiers besieged at Bastogne in Belgium. The 101__st__ American Airborne Division will succeed in breaking through Hitler's forces and freeing the Allied troops. They'll push the Germans further into the Rhine. It will be marked down as a great victory."_

_It was only then I realized that she was crying. Quietly, peacefully, there were tears running down her face._

_I asked if she had anything against the Allied forces. As though Muggle wars have anything to do with us. And she looked at me like she was surprised. It took me aback: it was as though she expected me to sympathize with the Nazis, quite naturally, no question about it. Then I remembered myself as I am in her memories. Distorted, grotesque, undisciplined. Of course she thought that—_

_It made me angry. I don't know exactly why. I can't overstate the insignificance of these wars the Muggles insist on putting themselves through over issues as trivial as territorial disputes. The only race worth running is the race to power. But I suppose I've come to realize these past months that I want very badly for Hermione to run with me. That must be why I was upset. She saw me as an enemy and I—it goes deeper than a mere selfish want. A deep and inextinguishable fear has started to grow inside me, and it whispers to me a string of logic I'm loathe to accept: my methods thus far, while effective, lead to the pathetic, unacceptable demise in Hermione's memories. In order to steer myself away from the ignominy of it, to truly set myself a new, greater path, the changes I make must be more than superficial. It's not enough to put off this or that plan by a few months. Though it pains me to admit it, my intellect is unparalleled and it won't allow me to ignore facts. I have to reconsider broader matters that may have led to the dulling of my instincts, which resulted in my defeat the hands of the hateful boy at the edges of Hermione's thoughts._

_Horcruxes, for one thing._

_Yet it doesn't make any sense to me—any of it—when I'm not around her. Letting go of this anchor to eternal life is unthinkable. I can only contemplate it when she's there to steady my hand and articulate all kinds of frivolous concepts. The sorts of ideas that might make her cry at the thought of faceless, unknown soldiers dying in a faraway country because of a war she has no connection to._

_Because that's what it was. She told me, "Over three thousand men will die in that battle. And there's nothing I can do about it. I sometimes wonder..."_

_I wanted to shake her, to ask what, what,_ what _does she wonder. Does she wonder, like I do, how it would be if she decided of her own volition not to go back to her time but to stay and join me? Does she wonder how it would be if I were to walk into the common room and take her right on the desk by the fireplace, and the Devil may care if anyone were to walk in?_

_None of those, apparently, because the next thing she said had to do with Christmas. She'd gotten me a Christmas present. _

_I detest an ambush._

_It was only a newspaper clipping. Oh, but here comes the good part. The little bitch had it all planned out, I suppose; some sort of attempt to tug on my heartstrings. It was a corner from an obscure page of a Little Hangleton paper, nearly twenty years old. The Muggle photograph, unmoving, didn't stop me from recognizing the man on the left. He looked exactly bloody like me, didn't he? And the woman next to him..._

"_I knew I recognized her," was what Hermione said, as if she was really chuffed with herself. Really bloody pleased._

_It was her. It was _her_. My damn mother. I'd never seen a picture of her before, but the wedding announcement with her name was right there by the caption. Ugly and cross-eyed and—and happy._

_All at once it wasn't_ Crucio _that was on the tip of my tongue but _Avada Kedavra_, pure hatred, unstoppable. And yet I didn't feel the same sense of building power as I have before. It was just a thought without momentum. It was baffling._

"_You recognize it too, don't you, from the Room of Requirement?" she asked me. Of course I did. "You see, the Room showed you what you needed even when you didn't know what to ask for. It sensed your sadness that you never got the chance to know her—"_

_I told her to shut up. I was very polite, under the circumstances. She really ought to have appreciated my restraint. But she blathered on._

"_But don't you see, Tom, this proves it. I was never sure until now. But I was right. You do feel things other than hate, I know you do. And that means you have a choice. You don't have to become him—the man I hunted for years. The man who destroys peoples' lives. _You have a choice_."_

_Doesn't she think I know that? Is that supposed to make it easy? Does she believe I'll just go skipping merrily off into the sunset all of a sudden, because of a sodding newspaper clipping? That I'm not still owed a legacy, a throne?_

_I was quite beside myself for a time, I'll admit, which is exactly the kind of misstep it is crucial to avoid from now on. Discipline is key. I thought of tearing up the clipping, blasting it to shreds with a curse, blasting_ her _to shreds. I thought of setting fire to her absurd Christmas tree and firing off spells until every creature in the bloody Forbidden Forest lay dead on the ground. I thought of throwing her onto the icy ground and ripping off her knickers and having her whether she liked it or not—but that's entirely not the point of my fixation with her. Uncouth behaviour, barbarism, really. What I want is—_

_What I want is for _her_ to want _me_ because that would prove—something. Something. I don't know what._

_So instead of all those things I had thought of so vividly, I did something much worse._

_Sentimentality is not a virtue, but I reached out and ran my hand along the side of her face and she closed her eyes._

_And I said, "I lied, you know. I commanded the basilisk to kill the Myrtle girl, because I wanted to. Because I could."_

_Her eyes snapped open and she was hurt, I think, but she hid it well._

"_You always lie," she said to me. She sounded tired._

_I asked where she'd gotten the newspaper clipping. I searched and searched for years for any scrap of information I could find on my family and never got a single photograph. _

_Oh, she told me, it was from some research she'd done back in her time._

_Because the more she knew about me the easier it would be to kill me._

_It made me even angrier, the way she mentioned_ her time _so casually. She really doesn't think she belongs here. She can't wait to leave. I don't want her to leave._

_I won't let her._

—_R_

* * *

Hermione awoke on the last day of the year with her face pressed against the cool wood of the desk by the fireplace in the Slytherin common room. Groggily she lifted her head and looked around her, glad to find the place empty. She must have fallen asleep while reading the night before. She stretched, stifling a yawn, and made to stand when finally her eyes caught a flicker of movement in the corner of the room and she nearly toppled from her chair in alarm.

"It's only me," said Tom, looking up from a long scroll of parchment with an expression of restrained amusement.

Hermione scowled, trying to regain her composure, and said the first thing that came into her head.

"Well, happy birthday, then."

His eyes widened by a fraction.

"You learned my birthday as well? Another useful piece of information to aid in my murder?" he asked conversationally.

"Voldemort's, not yours," she corrected him quietly. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she added, "Are you really doing homework on your birthday?"

"No."

"What, then?"

He pulled the roll of parchment closer to shield it from her eyes and said, "It's a letter. I've been awaiting its arrival for several weeks now." He put the parchment down and crossed the room to stand in front of her. "But that's not important right now."

"Oh?"

"No, it isn't. I want to know what you're smiling about."

Had she been smiling? Hermione composed her expression at once, but it was difficult, because when he stood so close to her she could feel that ever-present electric pulse between them. She had been very careful since his invasion of her dreams to wipe her mind blank ever night before sleep, not allowing any re-enactments of what had happened between them. The intensity of it had frightened her. But now, after their conversation on Christmas day, she was beginning to look at that electric feeling as a sign of hope. It was tangible, real, and it meant that she was right about him.

"I'm smiling because we're about to begin a new year," she said. "And this will be the year the war ends." She was speaking of both the wars against Hitler and Grindelwald, though she did not specify this to him. "This will be the year the _deaths_ end." At least for a while. Though if she had her way, the deaths that came later, the ones attributed to Voldemort, might never come to pass. And if that meant that she herself was dissipated somehow, blotted out of existence for a historical anomaly, then so be it. She was still smiling.

He looked at her strangely, with a concentration that seemed almost painful, and she realized that he was smiling too. Not the usual, seductive smile he employed to wrest information or service from the unsuspecting; a real smile. She knew what was going to happen before it happened, but she did not move away when he bent down to kiss her, slowly, tentatively. He did not grip her feverishly or pin her back as he had done before, but simply held her face and kissed her until she was breathless. Hermione opened her eyes for just a moment, and they landed on the letter that had unrolled on his chair by the wall. She could just make out the over-sized signature at the bottom, and she froze in shock.

With a Herculean effort Hermione pulled back and muttered, "Magnus Hirschfeld?"

For a moment Tom looked too dazed to answer. Then he nodded curtly and flicked his wand at the letter, which rolled itself up and sealed itself tight.

"Why are you corresponding with Magnus Hirschfeld?"

"Why do you think?" Tom asked. His face had gone completely blank. It was such a telling sign that Hermione wondered how no one else had ever noticed it. "To find out more about time travel, as you won't tell me anything."

She frowned. "I thought Hirschfeld was involved in experimental prosthetics? Isn't he a friend of Dumbledore's? And he made Alastor's eye..."

"If you would just tell me about the future, about how you came here, none of this would be necessary, you know."

"But I can't. You know that."

"I'm not sure I do. I really don't see why you couldn't explain to me, at the very least, the broader concepts involved with time travel—"

Hermione gave him a pained look. "You might use them for—" _For what?_

He nodded. "You don't trust me. That's odd. Wasn't that what the theatrics were about on Christmas, with the clipping and all that? _I have a choice_..."

"But..." She wrung her hands. "I can't be sure."

"Then I suppose I can't be _sure_ I can trust you, either. Thus, the letter from Hirschfeld." Tom waved his wand and the letter came soaring into his hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He kissed her again, only for a second, before briskly exiting the common room. Hermione swayed on the spot a little, then raced to her dormitory and pulled out the gilded mirror for the first time since her announcement to Harry and Ron that she intended to stay in the past longer than planned.

"Hello?" she said tentatively into the mirror.

"Yes," Ginny answered back at once, and Hermione could not tell whether she was imagining the slight edge of frostiness to her voice.

"Ginny, I, er—" Hermione cringed at what she was about to say. "I need to talk to Malfoy."

She could picture Ginny's eyebrows flying up in surprise, her eyes widening.

"Malfoy's off somewhere preparing for his trial."

"Trial?" said Hermione blankly. Then she smacked herself in the forehead with her hand. "Of course, yes, the Malfoys' criminal trials. I'm sorry, but is there any way you could contact him."

"I'm at Hogwarts," Ginny pointed out. "Term started yesterday. And he's in Wiltshire."

"Right," said Hermione, defeated. "I'm—I'm sorry."

There was a pause, then Ginny groaned. "Oh all right, then. Let me just find a bit of Floo."

There were an array of noises which, distorted through the mirror, sounded a little like the screeching of a train against rusty tracks. After several minutes Hermione heard distant muttering, followed by a rustling as—she presumed—Ginny removed the mirror on her end from her pocket.

"I've got to get back," said Ginny shortly. "I'll leave her here with you, shall I?" There were footsteps as she departed.

"What do you want?" Malfoy's cold drawl fell on Hermione's ears.

"Your family's time turner," she said quickly, "the one you and Harry and the others have been fixing—is it an heirloom? Where did it come from?"

"This is what you're bothering me with?" snapped Malfoy. "My grandfather bought the damn thing from the Dagmar estate before the executor died, as far as I know."

"The executor of the Dagmar estate? What do you mean?"

"I mean the person in charge of managing the family's effects and property, don't I?" said Malfoy irritably. "Shouldn't you know this stuff? Dagmar's the one who's building the time turner on your end, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Hermione, struggling to keep up. Something was not adding up. Someone was messing about very dangerously with time travel—she could sense it. And if Tom got wind of it, it could mean very bad news for her. "But... Well, who was the executor?"

"Some old duffer." Malfoy paused. "Hirschfeld, I think. Is that all?"

Hermione gasped. "Did you say _Hirschfeld?_"

"How many times do I have to repeat myself, Granger?"

"This is ridiculous!" exclaimed Hermione, ignoring him and stamping her foot. "I can't keep track of every conspiracy around this castle at once. Every time I sort through one another comes along. It's mad!"

"Bloody hell, Granger," Malfoy spat unexpectedly. "Would you stop moaning and _sort it out?_"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You were top of our year, and not just from licking McGonagall's boots every chance you got. You scored the most OWL's out of anyone. And I'm convinced Potter didn't exactly manage to do the Dark Lord in purely on his own wits, did he?"

"I—I mean—"

"Did you know I got all my ideas from you?" he interrupted relentlessly. "Poisoning that mead that ended up in Slughorn's office—I did that after I heard you talking about Filch and his complete incompetence. And the Room of Requirement where I put the vanishing cabinet to mend—well, that club you started in the Room wasn't really Potter's brainchild, was it? And do you know it took the Ministry five weeks to reverse the memory charm you put on your parents; it was that strong? You've got the damn talent, so get your head out of your arse and _sort it out._"

Hermione was silent for a full thirty seconds. Something about Malfoy's words had catalyzed her mind into action, and the gears of her brain were now spinning almost too rapidly for her to keep up. She felt as though she had been struck by lightning, or possibly run over by the Hogwarts Express.

"Oh my God," she breathed.

"What?" said Malfoy.

"You just said it," Hermione replied, overwhelmed by dawning comprehension. "It's me—it's all coming from me. Who else could have cast such a strong memory charm on Tom on the train? And the messages from Merrythought and the incident at the hospital wing—but why? Oh it makes sense now! Who else could have that much foreknowledge, or cause that much havoc inside Hogwarts? Only someone with the ability to time travel. Which must mean something very important will happen in the near future, and I've been trying to warn myself. But what is it?"

"Er, Granger?" said Malfoy, sounding bewildered.

But Hermione put down the mirror and shook her head in astonishment, repeating, "It's been me all along."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Ugh, this chapter, you guys. Look, I'm not good at mature subject matter, okay? Like, at all. It took me five margaritas to even get this incoherent mess out and if you hate it I don't blame you but just know I tried, all right? Also, I know this chapter is quite a bit shorter than the last few, but it did what it was supposed to in a certain number of pages so I decided to leave it as is. There will be three more chapters after this, by my estimation (and they will be much longer). Thank you all so much for the record number of reviews this week, it really means a lot and I am so sorry that I haven't gotten around to answering them. I'm a heartless wretch... **artoislover, PLacIDwiCkedNEss, Queen Freak, Dodge'89, Manda711, IDanceToForget, BarbarafromGR, HPFanGirl01, Dragonet82, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, douglasbailey7946, Brittany Rose Love, brighteyes2889, 372259, Fullofpassion09, UnattainableDarkAngel, kiddo, morpheusandmuse, Meg, ilovehermione, LoeraHaram, Summer Leah, Mademoiselle Darah, Ryn Thaliowen**... If I could share a frying pan full of bacon with all of you I would! (Haha what? No, I'd keep it for myself, let's be real here.) Song selection: "Paradise Circus" - Massive Attack. Cheers!

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_I have one horcrux. I'm well on my way to making another. To venturing further into uncharted, untested realms of magic than anyone has before. Victory._

_I've always thought—how insipid... How backwards, how moronic all the others are. Lestrange and Mulciber and Avery, _Avery_... How tedious to be content with the mundane certainty of life and death. Anyone who doesn't seek more is simply not worth the effort it would take to justify leaving them alive._

_But I can't imagine _her_ without a soul intact._

_She would be different, to be certain._ I _am different, after all. But any difference, in her, is unacceptable to me._

_I want her on my side, and yet I want—_

_I want her intact, whole, uncorrupted._

_Is it incongruent, then, not to want to same for myself?_

_She's brought about a repugnant change in me. I used to scoff at Avery for allowing himself to get so besotted with the Macmillan girl in sixth year and then—_

_And then that Ravenclaw Quidditch player came along and Macmillan was gone, as I'd said all along. And serve him right._

_But suppose—_

_If ever Hermione were to be gone, in that way, I don't think I could ever stop myself from killing her, killing everyone, everyone involved, everyone._

_She wouldn't._

_She wouldn't, in any case, so the matter is irrelevant. There is something about her that exceeds my expectations time and again._

_And yet..._

_If I carry on with my plan (I've had my reply from Hirschfeld, everything is in place) I can hardly envision a scenario in which she'd be content to continue our... arrangement._

_Well. And it isn't really an arrangement. Perhaps an unspoken one. There is no sort of planned engagement between us and yet I am positive—every fiber of my being is anchored in certainty—that she hasn't yielded the same parts of herself to anyone else that she has to me._

_To keep her here, despising me? Or to let her go?_

_To let her go is unacceptable._

_To have her hate me, however... _

_That is unacceptable too._

_To allow either to come to pass before I've possessed her, utterly and completely, is unthinkable._

—_R_

* * *

Hermione fought a losing battle with tears as she climbed the steps to Dumbledore's office two by two, swiping angrily at her cheeks and hiccuping slightly. She had held up reasonably well under strain over the last few months, keeping anxiety at bay by clinging to whatever shred of hope she could find—even if such solace happened to take the form of Tom Riddle. Now, however...

"Professor Dumbledore!" she said at the top of her voice, banging on the door to the Transfiguration department. "I know you're there! You had better let me in!"

To his credit, Dumbledore did not bother with pretense. He opened his door to her at once and let her in, a grim look on his face. His expression had the effect of confirming all her fears, and she felt a rather embarrassing bout of hysteria coming on: it was bad enough that she was alone in a strange land; now it appeared that she could not even trust herself.

"I see you have worked out the truth," he said, as though discussing a matter of no graver importance than the contents of his breakfast.

She meant to answer with a defiant "I have," but all that came out was an indignant whimper. Furious with herself, Hermione nodded.

"Well, I fear you must be rather upset with me," said Dumbledore. _You don't say_, Hermione fumed. "I will only say that I waited this long to give it to you for reasons of grave import, which you may not yet understand but I hope, in time, will come to accept."

Hermione opened her mouth to give an angry retort and then closed it, confused.

"G—give what to me?" she asked.

The future headmaster twinkled at her and removed a small drawstring bag from a drawer in his desk, which he handed to her with what she considered undue solemnity.

"Mokeskin?" she said with a sniff.

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed. And within is contained Mr. Dagmar's creation. I hope you will find it to your satisfaction."

_What?_

"I—" Hermione faltered. "You mean I can go... back to my time?"

"Oh I should not recommend such rash action right off the bat. However I do believe you may make a substantial leap closer to home."

"But..."

But nothing. She felt deflated, as though all the strength afforded by her anger had seeped away without warning. Was this not exactly what she had wanted? Was this not the _whole purpose_ of her sojourn at Hogwarts? She could go home; see Harry and Ron again; make amends with her parents. This was what she had been working towards for months. If not right away, then as soon as her work in the past was complete.

So why was her throat suddenly closing up in panic?

She meant to say many things, not least of which was an indignant, "And you've kept it from me for how long?" But in the face of her shock organized thought abandoned Hermione, leaving behind only the basic notion her mother and father had drilled into her from her infancy. Be polite.

"T—thank you sir," stammered Hermione, stuffing the Mokeskin pouch into her pocket and scurrying towards the door, too incensed to pursue her intended line of questioning. It was not until she reached the door that she remembered the reason for her visit.

"Sir." She bit her lip. "You've seen me around the school, haven't you? A... different version of me—older? _Haven't you?_"

But Dumbledore gave her a wide-eyed, guileless look which Hermione simply could not stomach. She sprinted away with the treasure in her pocket weighing her down, precious and fragile and dangerous. She careened down three corridors, hardly caring where she was headed, until she arrived quite naturally before the entrance to her common room.

It was only then that Hermione realized that her feet had carried her to the dungeons when she sought safe refuge, rather than to Gryffindor tower.

With a mirthless, watery chuckle she muttered the password—_Asp_—and entered the Slytherin common room to the sound of the clock atop the fireplace chiming midnight.

She had survived long enough in the past to see the dawn of a new year.

At last Hermione withdrew the Mokeskin pouch from her pocket and made to open it. Yet she was interrupted before she could pull out whatever fabrication was inside. She was interrupted by the voice she wanted to hear most, and at the same time dreaded.

"You shouldn't have come back in here," said Tom, smirking at her from his chair by the fireplace.

"I beg your pardon?" said Hermione with as much dignity as she could with her cheeks reddening at the memory of their kiss from mere hours ago.

"It's impossible to leave."

"_What?_"

"The exit is sealed," said Tom quite calmly. "It's possible to enter, but not to get out."

_Oh good Godric_. Hermione sighed inwardly, seized with a powerful suspicion that this was again her own doing. She only bothered a quick blasting spell in the direction of the common room door to ascertain that he was telling the truth: it was indeed shot back at her, so that she had to duck to avoid being hit.

"What happened?" She thought it best to feign ignorance until she could find some way out of her predicament. Would it do any good to attempt to reason with herself? Most likely not...

Tom shrugged. "Hogwarts experiences surges of unexplained magic at times. I've known it to happen before. It will have settled down in a few hours, I imagine. In the meantime, I'm sure we can find some way to occupy ourselves."

His eyes were alight in the same way they had been when Hermione had dreamed she was in the greenhouses, and every instinct in her body told her to run away as fast as her legs would carry her. Only this time there was no running away. There was nowhere to go. And so she was faced with the realization that the panic that had gripped her earlier at the thought of returning to her time was due entirely to Tom.

Not merely to the thought of leaving before she had fixed whatever there was within him to be corrected, but to the idea of never seeing him again.

Too tired to play coy, she dropped into the armchair next to him and closed her eyes.

"You've been crying," he observed, and Hermione was almost amused to hear the faint note of trepidation in his voice.

"How would you feel," she asked him cautiously, "if you were seeing someone for the last time? Maybe the last time ever?"

She could imagine him raising a disdainful eyebrow. "Relieved, most likely."

"Someone who existence you cared about, I mean," said Hermione impatiently.

"You, then, is what you mean."

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him, the dancing firelight reflected on his skin, the faint frown line creasing his brow. He looked pensive and unguarded; perfect. Six months ago she would never have dreamed that she could sit before him, drinking in his features with an insatiable thirst. And yet six months ago she could never have known that it was possible for him to look so devoid of savagery.

"I would be... displeased," Tom settled on at last.

"I think you're trying to express what most people would refer to as sad," said Hermione ruefully. She considered him for a moment before adding, "I... would feel the same way. I'd be sad too."

"Whatever you say, darling."

"Don't," she snapped, a little too quickly, and immediately regretted her reaction. He looked concerned now.

"What's happened?" Tom demanded. "Why have you been crying?"

The time in her hourglass was running thin. Hermione took a deep breath and decided to make a dangerous gamble.

"I was crying because I've found a way to get home," she said in a flat voice, looking carefully into the fireplace.

The effect was instantaneous. The atmosphere in the room seemed to cool by ten degrees and the air became thick with tension. Disregarding Tom's sharp intake of breath, Hermione finally opened the Mokeskin pouch and surreptitously prodded the small golden time turner within. It was delicate and it glistened in the firelight, and she had no doubt that it would function; she could feel the thrum of magic running through it and seeping into her skin.

Curiously, the moment the device made contact with her hand Hermione felt a searing pain in her arm near the place where a pale white scar marked her incident with Wartcap powder. Hermione dropped the pouch onto the arm of her chair and looked up to see Tom watching her with such a concentrated intensity that her head swam for a moment.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked, massaging her arm. The pain was gone, but she could feel a slight prickle settling in its place.

"You know why," he replied. No denial. No hedging. He simply looked at her.

"I—" But Tom cut her off by leaning across from his chair to hers and kissing her. He placed his hands on either side of her waist and leaned into her and all thoughts of the pain in her arm flew away at once.

"What are you doing?" asked Hermione breathlessly.

"Making you sad," he replied, so close that she could feel his lips brushing against hers as she spoke.

There was such careful restraint in the way he reached up to brush her hair back from her forehead then that Hermione felt a surge of victory. She felt, without knowing it quite at once, that she had won. And the unintended consequence was that she had absolutely no will to resist him anymore.

She stood and pulled him closer, gripping his back and edging onto the tips of her toes. He had somehow managed to maneuver her robes from her shoulders already, so that she stood only in her school blouse and skirt.

If this was anything, it was far from _sad_.

"Hermione," he muttered against the side of her neck as he trailed kisses along her jaw.

"Hmm?"

"Mine," he said incoherently.

That ought to have alarmed her, perhaps, or surprised her, but instead she felt a wholly unexpected and fierce surge of pride, and she tugged at his tie to loosen it.

Wasn't there something she was forgetting? Something important?

Tom pulled her blouse over her head. There was a trembling, aching, terrifying feeling surging through her that reminded her of the exhilarating bright lights of battle; of butterbeer and roaring fires; of survival itself. She shuddered against him as he brushed his hands against her knickers and this time, when she reached for his belt, she did not stop. They were—they were—

_Locked in_.

They were locked in, that was what she had forgotten.

Then Tom gripped her hips and pulled her closer to him in a way that made her gasp, and she bit down against the skin on his shoulder where she had been kissing him, and all of a sudden he was not careful anymore.

His wand lay on the desk nearby, but nevertheless he looked at her and she was thrown through the air against the wall, colliding with cold stone painlessly and stifling a shout of surprise. Already he had crossed the distance between them and was kissing her again, removing what was left of her clothes, and Hermione felt her arms pinned against the wall by a wave of magic that was impossible to resist.

She growled in protest and felt him smirk against her skin. The fire roared on directly to her right and she was beginning to grow uncomfortably hot when, as if in response to her thoughts, Tom threw a glance at the grate and the flames extinguished themselves, leaving nothing but hungry tongues of smoke that wrapped themselves around Hermione, making her head spin.

"Tom, now," she muttered, hardly certain of what she was asking. "Now, _now._"

He paused for a moment, asking for confirmation with his eyes, but she could only nod frantically. And then, then—

He thrust up, and she cried out, floored—not by the small amount of pain, which was there, but by the way everything changed. She could see bright lights. She could understand waiting for this in a way she had not before.

She moved with him, repeating his name and a hundred other nonsense words, bracing her hands against the wall, breathing faster and faster. The electric pulse was back. And Tom, too, looked stunned even as he gripped her tightly, as if he had envisioned this revelation as little as she had.

They were trapped inside. They made no attempt to get out.

* * *

A young man in a billowing winter cloak strode up to the gates surrounding the Hogwarts grounds and tapped the steel with his wand. The bars leapt aside to allow him passage, and she set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the castle. After a few moments he withdrew a heavy, slightly dented gold pocket watch from his cloak and opened it, shaking his head as though in dismay as he gazed at the time and date.

At length the man came to stand before to oak front doors of the school he knew well and threw back the hood of his cloak with a wry smile, revealing untidy dark hair and glasses. From another pocket of his cloak the man pulled a light, silky cloak that ran like water through his fingers. This he threw over himself and vanished suddenly, out of sight of even the keenest eyes.

Somewhere nearby the castle's clock tower chimed the midnight hour, welcoming the new year; the year that would bring an end to war. Harry Potter nodded once, invisible to all but himself, and stepped up to the Hogwarts doors.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Oooooooooookay I can't even tell you how sorry I am this took so long. I really, really didn't intend to disappear like that. Rest assured that I have no intention of abandoning this fic. Let's just say I may or may not have been kidnapped by secret agents who tried to implant a supercomputer into my brain. And then, like, I had all these episodes of The Walking Dead to catch up on... Look, I really appreciate those of you who messaged me and gave me the kick in the butt I needed to get this posted. And supermegafoxyawesomethanks to all my reviewers: **IDanceToForget, Dragonet82, Dodge'89, brighteyes2889, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, Kou Shun'u, Brittany Rose Love, UnattainableDarkAngel, HPFanGirl01, seniorforayear07, douglasbailey7946, MademoiselleDara, mh21, Ryn Thaliowen, Referee, morpheusandmuse, gleeislove, Rejar, janie, Anom, sKyLaR KnIgHt, Gwenlynn, Frostfoot-Dreamleaf, LCB, xxislandgirlxx, hswreck...** I haven't had time to answer you all but your reviews truly make my day and I can't thank you enough.

This chapter might seem a bit convoluted and raise more questions than it answers. I'm sorry for that. But it is necessary and I promise I have the last two outlined and everything will be resolve, for realz. Soundtrack for this one: "Valentine" by Fiona Apple.

PS: Did you all see A Very Potter Senior Year is up on youtube! Go watch it if you haven't yet, it is so insanely sad and good! I am an emotional wreck...

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Hermione opened her eyes and let out a small gasp as the cold night air bit at her shoulders. Her cheek was pressed against Tom's chest; she could feel him breathing, slowly, deep in sleep. There had never been a more soothing, calming sound. She realized that there was something irrevocable, now, about the draw she felt between them. It was as though a gravitational field had sprung into existence around them, and her every movement was informed by his presence. Tom Riddle.

She needed a clear head more than ever before in her life.

Hermione crept to her feet, wincing as the stone wall of the fireplace dug into her back. She clumsily shrugged on her blouse, skirt, and the mokeskin pouch containing the time turner, and approached the entrance to the common room: it was no longer sealed. Of course not. Inwardly aiming a few choice phrases at her future self, she stumbled out into the corridor and set off for the marble staircase. She had not gone twenty paces when she was caught off guard by the sounds of a vicious scuffle coming from a nearby empty classroom. Hermione flattened herself against the wall before edging closer to the classroom door and listening in.

"Bloody—effing—lunatic—!" snarled a boy's voice through what sounded like a swollen lip. "Let go of me!"

Hermione frowned, because she recognized that voice, and yet it was Christmas vacation so he ought not to have been anywhere near the school. What on Earth could Avery be doing in the dungeons? Yet it was the second voice that delivered the greatest shock, leaving her gobsmacked and frozen in place.

"There's really no need to make this unpleasant. All you have to do is tell me the password," said Harry Potter.

"Harry, Harry, _what are you doing here?_" Hermione whispered to herself, her mind racing. She quickly ran over her options: charge in to help Harry, or sneak away into the night and hide in her dormitory until the end of time. With a sigh Hermione pulled her wand from her sleeve and kicked open the door.

"Don't you think Legilimency would have been a bit easier?" she asked casually.

Harry's jaw dropped.

"For future reference, the password to the common room is now Herpo the Foul," she went on, and with a flick of her wand healed Harry's black eye, leaving Avery's cut lip to drip blood down his chin.

Harry grinned—oh how she had missed that grin—and said, "Merlin, it's odd seeing you in green."

She threw her arms around him in a fierce hug while Avery looked on, his eyes bulging out of his head, his mouth moving soundlessly. Harry, after all he had been through, had always remained a beacon of goodness to her; a stabilizing force.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione hissed after a moment, stepping back to examine the disheveled state of him.

"Well Ron was going mental and—" Harry began, but Hermione interrupted him.

"No, you," she said, pointing at Avery. "What are you doing at Hogwarts?"

Avery glared at her.

"Hang on." Hermione frowned as an idea occurred to her. "It's me, isn't it? I brought you back for something. Have you spoken to me recently?"

"Crazy bint," Avery muttered, looking as though he would like to sink into the ground and never return.

"What do you mean, has he spoken to you?" asked Harry.

Hermione tapped the chain of the time turner around his neck. "I'm beginning to suspect there are two of me running around the castle, if you catch my meaning."

Harry's eyes widened. "But that must mean—"

"Something is definitely going to happen." Hermione nodded. "I wouldn't do it unless there was a good reason." She reached into the mokeskin pouch around her neck and made to pull out the time turner for closer examination. Only this time it was not a mere twinge of pain she felt in her arm: burning agony ran all the way up to her shoulder as her scar throbbed and she cried out, her legs collapsing underneath her. Avery staggered back, looking confused, but Harry leapt forward at once and seized her arms, steadying her.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers. Hermione's head spun and she thought, incoherently, that she had buttoned up her blouse crookedly.

"Something is happening to me," she muttered. "Some... reaction to the scar I was given when I first came here, you remember." Harry nodded, in perfect control despite his bewilderment. "Time is running out. We have to act now."

"What about him?" Harry nodded over his shoulder at Avery.

"If he's not working for me then he's working for Tom," she replied, the words tasting sour on her tongue. "And that can't be good. We'll have to bring him with us."

"Like hell—" Avery began, but without so much as glancing at him Harry flicked his wand and the former was struck dumb, clutching at his throat.

"The Aurors are teaching you well." Hermione nodded approvingly.

"No," said Harry ruefully. "Snape. That was _Langlock_, one of the Prince's." A faraway, bitter sort of look had come into his eyes, and Hermione squeezed his hand.

"People do have a way of surprising us," she said quietly, her thoughts far from Snape.

To her everlasting gratitude Harry came back to himself, smiled, and followed her out the door without question.

* * *

Ignoring the throb of pain that flashed through her arm each time she touched its gleaming surface, Hermione slung the time turner around her neck and disillusioned herself, conjuring a heavy black cloak which she threw over herself for good measure. Harry had been reluctant to leave her to her own devices, but she had managed to convince him that time was of the essence and that they had to split up.

"Do you trust me, Harry?" she had asked, stepping a little apart from Avery as they neared the disapparition point at the edge of the grounds.

"Of course," Harry had said instantly. "But Hermione, this is mad—"

"It's already happened to me, and I'm telling you, it was nothing," she had insisted. "It has to happen so that I can put the pieces together. All you have to do is knock me out for a bit, then say 'The danger is in the mountains, but it's getting nearer. The key to all this is Dumbledore. He knows.'"

"What does that _mean?_"

"I don't know yet. That's why it's important that you tell me, so that I'll know to investigate. But first I have to go back to the Hogwarts Express and find out what spell Tom used to fix the compartment I told you about. I don't want to take any risks, so if we're going to make it home after tonight we need to have the third time turner just in case. Just keep an eye on _him,_" she added, pointing to Avery.

"Don't you think he already knows too much?" had asked Harry.

Hermione had shrugged. "We can obliviate him later. There's no time to try to break through his defenses at the moment. He may be a complete dunce but he's one of Slughorn's favorites which means he's at least marginally talented. He'll know Occlumency. We need to keep him close by until we can find out what he's up to, skulking around the school."

Harry had eyed her warily, and Hermione had shivered, realizing all at once that he was looking at her as though he had never fully seen her before.

"You're different," he had remarked. "You've changed, somehow."

She had bit her lip. "Ron's not here," she had said, changing the subject.

Harry had given her a sad smile, nodded, and said, "I'll meet you back here in an hour, then."

At present Hermione brushed an impatient tear from her cheek and, trying not to imagine Tom waking up alone in the Slytherin common room, spun the hourglass around her neck at top speed so that it revolved interminably upon itself. With a tired lack of wonder she watched the snow accumulate and then disappear around her in reverse order, until the leaves on the trees grew golden and the sun brightened. With a quick _Geminio_ spell she had obtained a replica of Harry's golden pocket watch, which whizzed and whirred until its needle neared September first. At last Hermione stilled the hourglass and staggered a little as her feet connected with unshifting ground. Then, with a deep breath, she disapparated.

Apparating onto a moving train proved more challenging than she had anticipated, and as she gasped for air Hermione was thrown off balance by the train's movement, so that she fell to the ground in a heap. For the first time in months she had overshot her apparition slightly. As a result she found herself in what appeared to be a luggage rack in a Ravenclaw third years' compartment. Luckily the students seated beneath her were being so rowdy that none of them noticed her presence as she crouched against their trunks and spied on them through the steel bars holding her up.

"I'm not lying, I'm _not,_" a girl insisted, trying to fend off her friends as they pelted her with chocolate frogs and giggled good-naturedly. "I _was_ meant to go to Durmstrang, Papa always said. Only we had to change our names on account of Grindelwald. He knew Papa was developing something very valuable and he would have come _after_ us."

She looked around impressively, but the boy nearest her guffawed and popped a chocolate frog into his mouth.

"Sure, Dagmar, whatever you say," he muttered through a mouthful of frog. "Grindelwald was after you, an' all."

_Dagmar?_ Hermione's ears perked up and she stifled a gasp.

"He was," the girl repeated in a sullen tone of voice, but her friends were no longer listening.

Was a third year likely to have any ability to resist Legilimency? Or indeed, even to realize their mind was being penetrated? Hermione thought not. _Look up_, she pleaded internally, _come on, look up, look up._

At last the girl complied, though thankfully she could not see Hermione. The latter concentrated as best she could and delved into the third year's mind as unobtrusively as possible, ignoring a twinge of guilt at the thought that invading the memories of an unsuspecting child was morally questionable at best. She flew past insignificant flashes of summertime adventures, searching, searching, until at last she found what she was looking for... _Hirschfeld._

_We had to change our names on account of Grindelwald. He knew Papa was developing something very valuable..._

Dagmar and Hirschfeld were one and the same. Which proved, once and for all, how much Dumbledore had kept from her.

Heart pounding in her chest, Hermione disapparated once more, this time landing on the roof of the train's very last compartment. The same one, filled with first years, which she had seen a cloaked figure vandalize in Riddle's diary. To her horror, however, Hermione realized that the disillusionment charm she had placed on herself was wearing off. She felt weak from the pain in her arm, and the time turner was throbbing around her neck in time with her racing heartbeat. Yet she could not bring herself to touch it directly and remove it from her neck, so great was the pain when her fingers connected with the hourglass.

What was happening to her?

_Tom would know._ The thought popped into her head without warning, and her longing for him took her by surprise. Resigned, Hermione waited for him, filled with unwanted bitterness at the knowledge that she would not be able to speak to him, touch him, even look directly at him. In the time intervening she set about the task of climbing down the side of the train to the wheel, just as she had seen in Tom's memory. It did not surprise her in the slightest that everything played out exactly as she remembered it, with the wheel screeching in protest as she sent the nastiest curses in her arsenal at it. She kept her hood up against the wind, but it flew off at the same moment as Tom arrived on the scene, standing at the edge of the roof of the next compartment. So this was it—the reason why she must obliviate him. He had seen her face.

A small but very vocal part of her wanted to dwell on the fact that she could have sworn she saw some expression of unguarded interest, even surprise and admiration in his eyes when they met with hers. But that must have been wishful thinking.

Then came the moment when he righted the compartment wheel. Hermione watched from afar, extendable ear at the ready, as he spoke the incantation: "_Morse vivificabit._"

"Of course," Hermione gasped, tugging the extendable ear away. She knew that spell. She had read about that spell, albeit in books of a less than savory nature. It was so simple that she ought to have thought of it herself.

Well, whatever else he was, Tom had always been brilliant.

Hermione disapparated to the corridor where she knew to wait for him, breathing heavily, and leaned against the wall. She missed him, she missed him, with an almost physical ache she missed him. How could she have allowed this to happen? When Tom strode through the door opposite she sent a weak _Impedimenta_ at him, just enough to incapacitate him while she performed a memory charm. His snarl of fury was so familiar and yet so contrary to the expression she had come to know on his face when he looked at her that she felt an inexplicable sense of defiance rise in her and dropped her wand momentarily to her side.

"What are you _doing?_" he shouted as she drew nearer. Hermione ignored him. She disregarded his cries of outrage. For the briefest of moments she stood on tiptoe and placed a faint kiss on his forehead, wondering if this would be her last chance. The last time...

"Obliviate," she murmured, her lips still brushing against his forehead, her wand pointing shakily at his temple. His protests died away at once, replaced by an unfocused passivity that was so unlike him it made her heart contract.

"Goodbye," said Hermione, and disapparated.

* * *

"Harry? _Harry?_"

Hermione glanced again at the copy of Fabian Prewett's old watch and felt sick with worry. Harry and Avery were over an hour late in returning. She could not fathom what might have held them up, unless some catastrophic accident. She'd already had time to summon the charred remains of her original time turner from her dormitory and paced the grounds three times over when at long last a loud _crack_ resounded behind her.

"Where have you been?" she demanded shrilly as Harry staggered forward, supporting an apparently unconscious Avery.

"Ran into you," said Harry, dropping Avery unceremoniously onto the ground.

"What? But—"

"The future you, I suppose. We did what you said first, dragged you away from Slughorn's party and warned you 'The danger was in the mountains.' Then on the way out there you were, this other you. You were in a funny way, all vague hints and warnings. You sent us further back and we found out, Hermione..." Harry looked at her and shook his head as though he could not quite arrange his thoughts into words. "The rise of fire and ash. Hermione, it's coming."

"What are you _talking_ about?" she demanded. "And what happened to Avery? It's always about fire and ash. What do you _mean?_"

Before Harry could answer her a tremendous rumbling rose over the nearby treetops, followed by a dull orange glow that could not but bode ill. _Fire and ash..._

The trees were burning; she could smell it. Hermione backed away, gaping in astonishment at the forest. A screeching could be heard in the distance, at once the most musical and the most haunting sound she had ever encountered. It reminded her of Fawkes's song after Dumbledore had died. Only there was nothing melancholy about it now. This was a war cry.

"Hermione!"

Just when she had thought she could not be any more taken aback than she already was, Hermione whipped around and saw someone running in her direction. A tall, dark-haired someone. He was gesticulating wildly and shouting; she had never seen him lose his composure so thoroughly. Harry's puzzled look turned to a grimace of hate and surprise when the figure came into view. When Tom skidded to a halt in front of Hermione and placed a hand casually on her shoulder, Harry's face turned to a mask of pale, unbearable stillness.

"Hermione, they're here," said Tom.

Hermione looked up, and the entire expanse of the night sky was ablaze above her.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Tada! Am I forgiven for my long absence after this super speedy update? Am I? No? Yeah, didn't think so... But guys, I hope you'll like this one, I think it finally provides a lot of answers (although there are still some loose ends I KNOW I KNOW, I'm working on it!) This was shockingly hard for me to write. I've grown absurdly attached to these characters, and although I'd originally thought Tomione would be a one-off for me I may well decide to write a few one-shots branching off from this in the future. Anyway, there is just one more chapter left. And I really want to thank those of you who stuck around after my mini hiatus and reviewed the last one: **wintersalad, IDanceToForget, Kou Shun'u, brighteyes2889, LCB, Frostfoot-Dreamleaf, Dodge'89, 372259...** I can't believe this story is almost over! I've appreciated all your feedback and support so much!

Guys: Florence & the Machine, with this chapter, am I right? Let me know.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

_They're here._

Crimson beasts—nothing at all like the benevolent creatures Hermione had come to know—catapulted across the sky, locked in a fierce battle that scorched the night. Clouds of ash descended upon the grounds, settling with eerie grace upon the snow. It was a wonder their cries had not yet woken the entire castle.

"They're fighting to kill," said Tom tensely, his hand clenching around Hermione's shoulder. Harry's eyes were fixed on the taller boy and filled with such loathing that Hermione felt compelled to step back.

"We have to get out of here, this is how Moody was almost killed," she said, reaching for her good time-turner. To her surprise Tom gave a shout of alarm and pulled her arm back. Harry's hand flew to his pocket, but Tom seemed not to notice.

"What?" said Hermione, keeping an eye on the Phoenixes battling overhead.

"Don't—You can't use that right now."

"Why not? We can't outrun this. We're back on the ground, we can't disapparate. This is a time-turner, it will carry all four of us."

"Just... wait a little while," Tom hedged.

A burst of flames exploded overhead and illuminated Tom's face; he looked almost panicked.

Hermione's eyes widened. "You did something to it! Something to stop me getting home... How?"

Tom squared his shoulders. "I did what I had to do."

"But how?" she insisted. "I've been wearing it round my neck ever since I got it, the whole time, except—" She broke off and glanced at Harry, biting her lip.

Tom shook his head at once. "No, Hermione, not _that._ It was Magnus Hirschfeld. He—we've been corresponding. About you. I... convinced him to make some alterations to this time-turner, as you call it." He looked her squarely in the eye. "If you try to use it to get home—to get more than a few months away from this present—you'll just be brought back here."

"Of course." Hermione clutched her head in fury, unable to believe she had not put the pieces together before. "Hirschfeld changed his name to Dagmar to hide from Grindelwald. _He_ made this time-turner."

"Hermione..." Tom began, not quite apologetic.

"As illuminating as all this is," Harry interrupted through tightly gritted teeth, "look at its _eyes_, Hermione."

He was pointing at one of the Phoenixes. Hermione looked in the same direction and gasped loudly. The markings around the bird's eyes were in the shape of half-moon spectacles.

"What?" said Tom.

Hermione opened her mouth to answer but Harry shook his head, eyes wide with alarm. And at last Tom seemed to register Harry's presence. At last his face contorted, first with recognition, then with hatred.

"_Him,_" he hissed.

Harry gaped. "_You told him about me?_"

"He used Legilimency."

Tom drew his wand.

To Hermione's horror, Harry sneered. The Phoenixes were almost directly above them now. A very insistent part of Hermione wanted to curl up in the snow and weep until she had all but melted away. However hysterics gave way to cold reason as practicality won out, and she stepped between the boys. She could almost feel the heat on her skin from the fiery creatures so far above.

"Fine," Hermione said. "All right. So, then, we'll use your time-turner, Harry."

But Harry, who was keeping an eye on Tom, shook his head curtly. "It melted down when I came here, Hermione. To get you out of this nightmare."

"He's shorter than I'd thought," Tom remarked.

"Can you be serious for one minute!" Hermione shrieked, reaching the end of her tether. "We are going to die if we don't get out of here. Avery looks like he's half dead already. We could very well get expelled for this. _We don't have time to waste!_"

"Avery's fine," said Tom dismissively. "The effects will wear off soon."

"The effects of what, exactly?"

"Of the curse." Tom stooped and lifted Avery's left sleeve, revealing an unpleasantly familiar, dark tattoo on his forearm. A snake contorting from the gaping mouth of a skull; they were witnessing the induction of the first Dark Mark. "When he didn't answer my summons I may have grown a little overenthusiastic in my retribution."

Hermione closed her eyes. "Your summons. So he has been working for you all this time—_against me._"

"If I didn't know better I'd say you sound surprised," muttered Harry.

But Tom glared. "No, he was supposed to be keeping an eye on you for me."

Harry's expression flickered into something unreadable but at that moment the Phoenix that was Dumbledore gave a terrible, drawn out cry of pain that caused Hermione's insides to squirm. In her distress she fumbled her mokeskin bag, so that the new time-turner fell out into her open hand. Her arm seared again, and suddenly the Phoenixes were like twin missiles diving straight for her.

Hermione was aware, in a faint and distant way, that she was screaming. The spells she and Harry shot at the birds had as little effect as pebbles thrown at fortress walls. On the ground Avery stirred, and next to him Harry bellowed spell after spell, and Hermione knew what must be done. With fumbling fingers she held up the ruined and blackened time-turner that had first brought her to the past and whispered the incantation to bring dead flesh back to life. It was fitting, after all, that Tom had been the one to help her discover it: who else would have known how to create Inferi?

"_Morse vivificabit._"

The spell was powerful enough, where all others had failed, and the ruined time-turner shone gold for a moment as it repaired itself before her eyes. Squinting against the scorching head emanating from the charging Phoenixes, Hermione threw the chain around Harry's neck, and attempted to get close enough to Tom to link them both. It was then that Tom blinked, cast Harry's efforts to repel the Phoenixes a look of disdain, and stepped in front of the group to shield them from the fire. Hermione had seen this look of blissful concentration on his face before, but never quite so intensely as now. And to her amazement a dome of clear gray light emanated outward in every direction, blocking the four of them from harm. Tom appeared to be in complete control, and the light was shimmering, and Harry's jaw had fallen open in shock, and Hermione accidentally let the time-turner slip between her fingers.

Tom turned to look at her then, and she understood her mistake.

As Hermione reached out instinctively to retrieve the time-turner it slipped from her fingertips and was sent spinning through the air, with only Harry encircled by its chain. They had only a split second in which to exchange a panicked glance before Harry vanished into thin air, pulled to a time apart from hers. Swift as lightning Tom seized her hand and pulled her along as he sprinted the distance separating them from the edge of the grounds. The Phoenixes immediately gave pursuit, but it was too late. Tom disapparated, bringing Hermione with him even as she screamed Harry's name again and again.

They materialized on a crest of rock near the base of the Hogsmead mountains. Hermione recognized the cave where Sirius would someday reside as a dog while he watched over Harry. They were high enough that she could observe the vista of clear night sky stretching all the way to Hogwarts. Clouds of ash and smoke could be seen rising from the forest.

"No, Harry, _Harry!_" Hermione shouted, beside herself with worry. "We have to find him, we have to find a way!"

Tom attempted to seize her by the arm but she tore away from him and pulled out her wand once more, desperate for a plan of some sort.

"The boy will be fine," said Tom coldly. "You won't do him any favors by tearing off after him, either."

"You don't know," Hermione yelled at him. "How can you know that?"

Roughly, he yanked her arm forward and pointed to the thin scar she had sustained outside Hagrid's cabin. To her shock, the scar was no longer faint and pale, but a deep crimson tinged with purple and green. It looked, all at once, grossly infected, foreign to her.

"_What...?_"

"I didn't understand until tonight," Tom explained. "When I woke up and you were gone, I finished reading Hirschfeld's letter, and he confessed that he extracted some properties from Thestral hair in the making of your time-turner, to achieve the effects I had discussed with him. Then I looked outside for you and I heard the sounds of the fire on the horizon. And I knew. You were always talking about Phoenixes and fire and ash..."

Hermione frowned, struggling to understand.

"Thestral hair, Hermione," Tom went on. "A primary ingredient in locator potions, spells, amulets, as Thestrals have such a refined sense of direction. Surely you know that."

"Then..." Hermione bit her lip. "Then—"

"The Wartcap powder your attacker used on you the first week we met was just a diversion. A clever one. That scar you have is imbued with a tracking spell that is activated by a Thestral's magic. Someone has set a Phoenix on your trail, with the objective of having you discovered at the moment you laid hands on that time-turner."

"Oh!" Hermione's eyes grew wide. "The Shrieking Shack—I mean the Valmount property is directly under the Thestral migratory path that leads to the Forbidden Forest. That's why... when we were there..."

"Yes, a close call. But someone must have saved you without your knowledge."

_Yes, someone, or something,_ Hermione thought, remembering the markings around the second Phoenix's eyes, which exactly matched Dumbledore's glasses. She paused for a moment, absorbing this new information, before rocking back on her heels and then shoving Tom squarely in the chest. He stumbled back, looking surprised.

"How could you _do_ this to me?" she demanded.

"Beg pardon?"

"It was you! With Hirschfeld. You had him muck about with my time-turner and now I can't touch it without bringing an attack on myself. Why is a Phoenix even coming after me? Who could have that much power over it, to force it to track me down with murderous intentions? _How could you do this?_"

"I had nothing to do with the Phoenixes," Tom retorted angrily. "I did what I had to, to keep you."

"I'm not yours to keep, Tom, for heaven's sake—"

"Yes you are!" His eyes flashed and Hermione faltered. "You can't do what you did—tonight, giving yourself to me—you can't do that to someone and then tell them you're not theirs."

"Tom, that's not—"

He stepped toward her, his heels echoing against the stone walls of the cave behind them, and there was a rushing in Hermione's ears that was equal parts fear and disbelief and exultation; sublime. He placed his hands on either side of her face and held her at arm's length, staring at her. His arms were trembling in frustration.

"You don't get to be right about this," he snarled at her. "It's not possible when I know—You have to—Because—"

As he grew incoherent Hermione's breath hitched and she urged him, "Because what?"

Her heart thudded three times, agonizingly loud in her chest. It sounded like thunder. Three painful seconds. And then...

"Because I love you," Tom said flatly.

Hermione was only conscious, then, of kissing him, and of having no intention of ever stopping. Her hands were in his hair and he was picking her up and then they were lying in the snow and he was kissing her as he had never kissed her before, as though he would die if he stopped. He tore her cloak away and still she felt she could never be close enough to him. Then he was inside her and she gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders until they cut his skin and their breath was crystallizing in the cold air before them and mingling together.

"Tom," she said, and it came out garbled, because she was losing the ability to speak. "I..."

He flipped them over abruptly so that her back rested against the ground and there was snow in her hair. "Yes?"

She closed her eyes. She had forgotten the fire and ash and the horrors of battle. Nothing else mattered. "... Love you," she whispered.

He kissed her, he kissed her, he kissed her. And she knew only that it was perfect.

* * *

"I have to find Harry," Hermione said quietly. Dawn was approaching. The horizon was tinted with a faint rosy hue, and in the early light the stillness of the forest was beginning to grown unsettling.

Tom shrugged, unconcerned, and toyed with a strand of her hair.

"I really do," she insisted. "He could be anywhere."

"He'll come here."

"Why is that?"

"You told him to tell you that the danger was in the mountains, didn't you?"

Hermione considered this for a moment. "Yes, I suppose I had better stay put then." Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as Tom pressed a kiss against her shoulder. "And then what?"

"And then I'll kill him."

Hermione felt as though she had received an electric shock from head to toe. She sprang back against the cave wall and gaped at him.

"What? _What?_"

"He's going to kill me if I don't. It's a better opportunity than I could have dreamed. What do you expect me to do?"

"He's the best person I know. He's my _best friend._"

"Then why did he leave you here all this time, with me?"

"You absolutely will not hurt him!"

Tom shot her a look that was almost amused. "Then I should just sit back and accept to be killed?"

"That will only happen if—"

"He wanted to do it tonight, out in the courtyard. I could see it in his eyes."

He sounded so calm, so matter-of-fact. It was clear that he truly did not understand her objection. Hermione's head was beginning to hurt.

"I don't think you could," she said at last. "You don't have murder in you anymore. That's why..." _That's why I'm here with you, _she finished in her head.

Tom arched an eyebrow. "We'll just have to see, won't we?"

Before Hermione could come up with a retort the scar on her arm began to itch and prickle uncomfortably, and soon after a speck of dazzling color became visible in the distance, soaring over the treetops in the direction of the mountain.

"I'm not touching the time-turner," said Hermione stricken. She patted the pocket of her cloak, where she had sealed it away for safekeeping, just to be sure.

"No, that's not it," said Tom slowly, looking around. His eyes went suddenly blank, and Hermione grew more alarmed than ever.

"What is it?"

"I'm—I didn't realize," he said in a hushed, rigidly controlled voice. "I didn't mean to. I'm... sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Hermione took in her surroundings more fully and realized with a jolt that the walls of the cave were abnormally dark: they were scorched and covered with soot.

"I didn't..." Tom repeated incoherently, as though making a mistake was something he had never experienced before. "I brought us right to its nest. We apparated here, we've left traces of our magic here, on its territory. That's why it goes after you."

"No, it went after me in the past," Hermione argued. "This can't have anything to do with it."

"A Phoenix isn't subject to time, it's eternal." There was no mistaking the greed in his voice. "Its enemy is _always_ its enemy."

The fiery bird was growing nearer by the second, and Hermione was about to take Tom's hand and disapparate to a safer locale when the second Phoenix burst into the air and crashed into its opponent with a mighty screech.

"We should go," said Tom.

"No! That's Dumbledore!"

Hermione had seldom seen him so bemused. "_Dumbledore?_"

She edged as close as possible to the steep rocky slope outside the cave and peered out at the battle, clutching at her hair in fear. "I've lost track of the number of unregistered Animagi whose identities I've kept a secret over the years. It seems Dumbledore is one of them. Merlin knows how he found out about all this, but I think he's trying to protect me—us. He could get seriously hurt!"

Tom stood at her side in silence and Hermione glared at him, noting his lack of concern.

"Dumbledore cared about you when he first met you, you know," she said. "He wanted to look out for you. He wanted to see you put your talent to good use."

"More memories collected in the hopes of killing me? You offer poor support for your own arguments, darling."

Hermione's answer was drowned by a loud crack that echoed through the sky as the first Phoenix suddenly vanished in mid-air with a burst of flames and reappeared, without warning, mere feet from the cave. Moments later its pursuant had apparated to its side. Tom's expression flashed from one of indifference to one of raw defensive power, and he threw Hermione a look of alarm. The mighty birds careened through the void and Hermione was forced to duck as a talon slashed the air inches from her face. She overbalanced and slipped several feet down the rocky slope, coming to a shaky rest against a boulder solidly anchored to the cliff face. As she looked up, however, she saw the first Phoenix clamp its beak around the other's neck and felt a wave of heat burst out from the pair. It was a clear death blow; the end of the fight was at hand.

"No—Dumbledore!" Hermione screamed so loudly her throat hurt.

They had to get away. But there was no time. Hermione's eyes locked with Tom's as the mountainside was bathed in fiery light, and she watched as if in slow motion, paralyzed with terror, as he used the very last moment before the explosion to flick his wand in her direction so that the boulder on which she stood split from the cliff face. Hermione was sent tumbling safely to the soft bed of dirt and grit at the bottom of the slope, while the mountainside was blasted apart in a tidal wave of blinding light. She hit her head against a heap of jagged rocks and knew only darkness.

* * *

"Hermione."

_They're here..._

"_Hermione._"

Fiery light... And Tom, Tom was in danger...

"Hermione!"

Harry's face loomed into focus as Hermione opened her eyes and winced at the pain in her head. Immediately she became conscious of the stifling presence of what appeared to be piles of cloth draped around the pair of them.

"Wha—"

"We're under the cloak," Harry explained in a whisper. "Try not to make any sudden movements, you've lost a fair bit of blood."

"Tom!" Hermione exclaimed, immediately attempting to sit up. But Harry pushed her back against the ground.

"Calm down," he commanded.

"And Dumbledore! Oh, what happened to them? He's dead, they're both dead!"

Harry took a deep breath. "Dumbledore's fine, Hermione. Because of the nature of Phoenixes, he just regenerated when Fawkes attacked him, back to his human self."

"_Fawkes?_" But Hermione trailed off. Harry's words rang strangely in her ears. _Dumbledore_ was fine.

"And..." She could not say it.

"Dumbledore's with Riddle now," said Harry cautiously.

Hermione seized the front of his robes. "What's happened to him?"

"He's not quite... Well, see for yourself. But stay under the cloak."

Harry supported Hermione as she stood, and she found herself so unsteady on her feet that she had no strength to tear free from him and duck away from the cloak in any case. Together they trudged painstakingly up the rocky slope once more and approached the cave, where a perfectly healthy Dumbledore stood over Tom's slumped form. A horrific scene greeted their eyes. Most of the sandy earth had turned to glass, so that the ground beneath their feet was abnormally hard and slippery. A monstrous fissure had split the cave cleanly in half and appeared to run halfway up the mountainside. Tom's feet dangled over the edge of the crevice, and every inch of his clothes, and of the cave around him, had been burned and covered in cinders. Hermione felt as though all the air had been punched from her lungs. But then Tom turned over onto his side, coughing slightly, and she saw that his eyes were open and alert as ever. His features were marred by a single scratch on the left side of his chin. Phoenixes truly were remarkable pacifists. The wave of relief that swept through Hermione made her knees weak. At her side Harry had grown tense, and it occurred to her that he was seeing Dumbledore alive for the first time in a year and a half. The thought made her feel oddly, as though she could only now fully appreciate how disconnected she had grown from her own time.

"Tell me again what you remember, Tom," said Dumbledore quietly.

Tom sat up a little straighter and looked around. He seemed as in control as ever, if rather bewildered.

"I remember, well... I don't remember coming here, sir, that's the truth. I remember getting off the train and—" He picked up a fistful of snow and examined it, frowning. "Is it winter, sir?"

Hermione frowned. "What is he saying?"

"I heard Dumbledore talking to the Matron earlier," Harry murmured. "Victims of Phoenix attacks often come out disoriented. It's a part of the Phoenix's defense mechanism. They're a mystery, you know. We're not supposed to know how they die."

"Yes, Moody said the same thing," said Hermione. "He said even after years he could hardly piece together what happened to him. But even so..."

Harry shuffled uncomfortably. Thankfully the silence was broken by a loud crack as a minuscule, jittery house-elf with a bulbous nose like a pear appeared at Dumbledore's side.

"Ah, thank you Hob," said Dumbledore gravely, taking a small glass vial from the house elf, who immediately vanished.

"What's that?" asked Tom suspiciously.

"Tom, I would like you, please, to tell me whether the names Hermione Granger or Harry Potter mean anything to you," said Dumbledore.

Tom quirked his head to the side, clearly trying to hide his annoyance and remain respectful. "Who, sir? I'm afraid I've never heard of them. I daresay we've all had our lapses of attention in Professor Binns's class, if you'll excuse me saying so."

"Well he's obviously lying for Dumbledore's benefit," Hermione whispered, crossing her arms and looking to Harry for confirmation. But Dumbledore was already uncorking the vial.

"Is that veritaserum, sir?" said Tom, his eyebrows flying up in confusion.

"Yes, and I'm told it has the most marvellous aftereffect of curing a tenacious headache, when used sparingly. As Madame McClaggen is busy at the moment, I don't suppose you'd mind my taking this shortcut in your care, would you?"

It was clear that Tom did not believe Dumbledore's pretense for a second. Yet, cornered, he nodded curtly. Hermione could only imagine that he did not wish to look as though he were hiding anything, lest Dumbledore should grow suspicious. The Transfiguration professor decanted three drops of the clear potion into a small cup he conjured from thin air, and Tom tossed the veritaserum back without comment. Hermione waited with bated breath.

"Now, Tom, I would like you to tell me again what the names Hermione Granger and Harry Potter mean to you."

Tom's face had taken on the blank indifference characteristic of those under the influence of a truth serum. And he said, "Nothing at all, sir."

Hermione felt suddenly numb from head to foot.

"Very good." Dumbledore smiled and waved his wand discretely in the vicinity of Tom's left temple. "Now, you won't remember those two names we've been discussing in a little while, will you?"

"No," Tom agreed amicably, and closed his eyes, his head lolling against his shoulder.

"I'm afraid that is that, then, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, who had apparently known Hermione was there without turning around.

"No!" Hermione shouted, emerging from the cloak and dropping to her knees at Tom's side. At the moment she hardly cared that Harry was watching her stroke the side of Tom's face with tears running down her cheeks. She hardly cared about anything at all. "He was lying, somehow. He was lying!"

"I'm afraid you know as well as I do that it is impossible to lie under the influence of veritaserum," said Dumbledore. "He will have only the most vague recollection of his latest term at Hogwarts. And now, Miss Granger, though I hate to hasten your departure in your current distress, I must encourage you to make use of the instrument I gave you yesterday. It would not do for your name to become connected to an event of this magnitude. The other professors will be made aware of what has happened here."

"HE CAN'T HAVE FORGOTTEN!" Hermione hurled at him, her voice echoing through the morning. "After everything... I'd made such progress. Harry!" She turned to face him, though he was still hidden underneath the cloak. "Your parents, Harry. Lupin and Tonks and Sirius and Fred, and—and—He was—" But something prevented her from going on, and she thought back to Tom's determination to eliminate Harry. "Oh," she murmured, tears falling thick and fast down her nose.

The bitter cold of the morning seemed to settle upon her shoulders until she could not bear to be in her own skin any longer. She could not bear these accursed surroundings that had led her to such strife, and she could not bear to feel Dumbledore and Harry watching her, pitying her. Something had vanished in her chest, replaced by only a sense of cold, aching emptiness.

"Hermione," came Harry's pained voice from the empty air, and Dumbledore looked politely amused, "we can—we can find some other way to... I know you believed you could make a difference. You worked so hard. But we can try another—"

_No._

"Let's go," she cut him off, surprised by the iciness of her own tone. "The past is the past, and I was foolish to think for a moment it wasn't written in stone. We won't try again. He would have tried to kill you."

"He's tried it before," Harry remarked. "I'm still here."

"No," Hermione replied. "Voldemort did. Not Tom."

Harry appeared to have no response. Hermione bowed her head slightly in Dumbledore's direction. It was all she could manage. Dumbledore gave her a smile that twisted at her insides and made her feel unaccountably angry.

"Professor," she said quietly.

For a brief moment Hermione allowed herself to bend down and brush a kiss against Tom's forehead. His skin was smooth and pale and perfect in the light of dawn. Something within her seemed to swoop down and anchor itself in the ground beneath Tom, and she knew she would never get it back.

"Goodbye," she said, too quietly for anyone to hear but herself.

Hermione stood, joined Harry under the cloak, and threw the chain of the good time-turner around them with steady hands that felt cold as ice.

* * *

**A/N:** I know, I'm sorry, I know! I know you want to egg my house and slash my tires right now. But please, PLEASE, I'm asking you to trust me and just withhold judgment until the next chapter, okay? Pretty please. *I have a plan.* I'm going to go hide now...


	15. Chapter 15

*****EDIT: As of May 2013 this story is now CONTINUING. The promised sequel has turned into a chaptered fic that continues into chapters 16+, so whatever is posted after this is not some form of extensive author's note, it's more story! Yay! Thanks for all the encouragement that inspired me to continue, you lovely people.**

**A/N:** Here we stand my friends, on the brink of a new dawn... Ha just kidding! I'm not gonna wax poetic, I'm just gonna let you read the chapter. My real author's note will be at the end this time. I just want to thank all you amazing reviewers one last time, you guys have truly made writing this crazy, sometimes painful story a great experience and I couldn't have done it without you: **Dodge'89, douglasbailey7946, Kate Elizabeth Black, sweets1111, IDanceToForget, HPFanGirl01, brighteyes2889, mh21, Ouri kiryu, Kou Shun'u, LCB, cicadawing, cocartist, SleepyPadfoot, PLacIDwiCkedNEss...** I got a lot of pretty hilarious/scary threats in my last round of reviews. Hope this lives up to your expectations. Cheers all!

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

_She sat on a straight-backed chair, gazing blankly at the wall, where an ancient grandfather clock sat stoically beating out the segments of each hour in a cold age. It was seven-thirty in the morning on the thirty-first of August, 1944, the clock announced proudly. It was really remarkable to have the ability to flit through time in such a manner, yet Hermione simply felt numb. She knew Harry was sitting behind her, could hear him stirring anxiously, but she could not summon up the energy to offer him reassurance that she was all right._

_She was not all right._

"_I apologize for keeping you waiting," said the auburn haired Dumbledore of the past, entering the room clad in a purple housecoat and beaming at them both. _

"_You've been told of our situation?" said Hermione without preamble._

_Dumbledore peered at her keenly. "It is my understanding that you two charming individuals are foreign travelers seeking refuge."_

"_Well you understand wrongly. We lied to Dippet, he would never have believed us, but you will. I'm counting on it."_

"_My, my," said Dumbledore, giving no indication that he was put off by Hermione's grim-faced sincerity._

"_We come from the future," she went on, cutting across Harry's tentative attempts to explain their situation. "You were born in Godric's Hollow and your father, Percival, was jailed for attacking the three Muggle boys who set upon your sister, Ariana, and left her crippled by her own magic. You once sought after the Deathly Hallows with Gellert Grindelwald, until a duel between the two of you and your brother, Aberforth, resulted in Ariana's death. We don't sit in judgment on you, and we have no interest in the Hallows. We arrived here by accident, using a device called a time turner that has yet to be invented. We need your help to get home."_

"_Indeed," said Dumbledore after a long silence, in as grave and quiet a voice as she had ever heard him use. He inclined his head, and Hermione took this to mean that she was welcome to continue._

"_We mean the students of this castle no harm, and we'll submit to veritaserum and Legilimency if you like. We have a long-standing acquaintance with you in our time. In less than twenty-four hours I am going to arrive in your office, unaware that we've already spoken. It is a matter of life and death that you should allow me into the school as a student for the upcoming term."_

_Hermione waited with bated breath for a response. Dumbledore was smiling benignly at her once more, but she could feel a carefully restrained, terrible power stirring just beneath the surface of his calm facade. The air was practically thrumming with it. At long last, he twinkled at her and repeated, "Indeed."_

_Hermione felt weak with relief. But she must not let on; she must convey single-minded determination._

"_Excellent. I'll be able to discuss further arrangements with you when I arrive. It's of vital importance that you don't let on that we've already met. Oh," she added, rising from the chair but turning back before she could reach the door, "and I'm going to need to place Professor Merrythought under a trance in a few weeks' time."_

_The clock on the wall let out a hollow, mournful toll and Hermione swept from the room without pausing to gage Harry's or Dumbledore's reaction._

_Time was the slyest of opponents, and she would not underestimate it again._

Hermione opened her eyes and started, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. The circular office, the large polished Head's desk, the portraits lining the walls; for a time she had not been certain that she would see any of them again.

A chair creaked and she looked over to see Harry sitting nearby, watching her over a copy of the _Evening Prophet_. It was less than a fortnight to her nineteenth birthday, the date on the paper informed her. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the last remnants of her dream. It was bad enough to have lived through it once. The slinking around recreating events; subverting poor old Professor Merrythought; convincing Avery, who had survived the Phoenix attack with a case of amnesia similar to Tom's, to put out the rumor that they had shagged, for Merlin's sake. Even planting Magnus Hirschfeld's doctored time turner near the Rom of Requirement upon her return to ensure her own transport to the past. And all the time trying to avoid running into _him_...

_Don't think about it._

"How long was I asleep?" she asked.

Harry did not answer her at once. Instead, he made a business of closing his paper and placing it on the desk, looking anywhere in the room but at her. Then, fixing his eyes on a point a little above her head, he said in an oddly stilted voice, "A long time."

"You're upset with me," Hermione guessed, her spirits falling. She had not realized, although she ought to have expected it. He would have had time to think of what he had seen in the past now, time to process, to interpret. And after all (_Don't think about it!_ her mind screamed at her in a panic. _Don't don't don't_—), well, it was Harry, and it was Tom—

She could not, would not think about it.

"He wants to speak to you," was Harry's response, and he nodded at Dumbledore's portrait, which was for the moment empty.

The window was open and a breeze blew in the first of the first of the autumn's chill. Hermione blinked.

"The air is different."

"What?" said Harry, a little snappishly.

"Different to how it was in 1944," Hermione explained. "I'd forgotten. It smelled fresher then. It's all this progress in Muggle technology. It's like the air's gone off or something."

"Right," Harry muttered, and left the room without further comment. Hermione could not help but notice that there was still no sign of Ron.

"Hermione," said a voice she recognized, and she turned around, somewhat surprised. Dumbledore had never addressed her by her given name before. And yet there he was, the Dumbledore she knew, beaming at her from his portrait as though they had just shared in some particularly amusing joke.

"All these years," she marveled, "you've known what would become of Harry and me. You'd already met us."

"Oh now, time is a curious and unfathomable thing, is it not?" he replied mysteriously. "If I have had an inkling of what the future had in store from our encounter, I have always thought it best to put it out of my mind as much as possible. After all, great ill can come of tampering with time."

"I'm not so sure," Hermione muttered.

"Why is that?"

"Because it made no difference!" she exploded, unable to help herself. "All that time I spent in the past. Every—everything of myself I gave up to try to change things, to try to save people. Lily, James, Sirius, Lupin, Moody, _you_, sir, you as well. I thought I could make it so that—so that—" She broke off, turning away to dab at her eyes so that Dumbledore would not see. But the silver-bearded man in the portrait was as earnest in his joviality as ever.

"No difference, Hermione?" he repeated. "Did you never wonder, then, why the Dark Lord listened to Severus Snape's request to spare Lily Potter's life?"

Hermione's hands tightened around the arms of her chair until her knuckles turned white and her head whipped up to face the portrait.

"What?"

"Why should a man with no vested interest in Lily, who believed his very existence might be jeopardized by her family, a man so lost to kindness and human concerns—surely you remember that he killed Severus rather than risk simply winning the Elder wand from him in a duel—why should Voldemort agree to spare Lily Potter's life simply because Severus asked him to? Why should Severus's infatuation matter to him?"

Hermione shook her head, her stomach tying itself into a painful knot, refusing to believe what he was trying to tell her.

"Because a part of him always remembered," Dumbledore went on relentlessly. "Tom never could remember your name, your face, the time he spent with you, but deep down some trace of the mark you left on him remained. You were as crucial to the outcome of the war as Harry. Without Tom's memory of you, Lily would never have been offered even a choice, and never could have chosen to die, leaving Harry the protection of her love."

"That isn't—that can't be—" Hermione stuttered. She had resolved not to think about it. It hurt too much. How could she say to Dumbledore what it was she really wanted to say? _I still..._

But he knew. She could see in his eyes that he did not hold her in contempt for the way Tom's very image tore cruelly at her insides, so violently did she miss him.

Dumbledore surveyed her with blazing eyes. "You, Hermione, made all the difference in the world."

* * *

Days passed, stretching treacherously into weeks, and to Hermione the descent of a ripe, golden fall upon the countryside seemed a cruel taunt. A distant, grudging Harry had condescended to allow her to stay at Grimmauld Place, as she could hardly return to the Burrow as she would once have done, and there she began the slow process of re-acquainting herself with her parents and rebuilding a life in the present. Owls poured in from the Ministry, especially after the ceremony in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office in which Hermione was awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class identical to the ones Harry and Ron had received after the final battle. The letters were filled with words of praise and offered Ministry positions much more prestigious than was usually afforded unqualified nineteen year olds. Hermione considered each one carefully and weighed her options, eventually settling on a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. But her actions were forced, empty. Her zeal for meticulous attention to detail no longer inspired tingling excitement.

She could not think about it.

In November, shortly after her first promotion, she ran into Ron in Diagon Alley entirely by accident. She had barely seen him since her return, when the entire Weasley clan had burst into Hogwarts to reassure themselves of her safety before subsiding into awkward silence and suspicious glances. Ginny had made half-hearted efforts at correspondence all the way through September, but Hermione could not bring herself to even open half of her letters, so badly did she fear finding censure there.

"Hi," said Ron blankly, standing in front of Flourish and Blott's with an armful of brown paper packages, blinking at her as though he had never seen anything so astonishing in his life.

"Hi," Hermione responded, inwardly cringing. "Er, it's nice to see you."

"Yeah," he said automatically, running a hand through his hair and looking at an utter loss. A gaggle of young witches passed by and broke into excitable whispers, pointing and giggling. Perhaps they recognized Ron from his chocolate frog card. Perhaps they simply thought he cut a dashing figure in his new navy blue robes. Because he did.

Hermione gazed at him with dawning wonder, seeing him in a different light than she had ever done before. This was a Ron grown out of his awkward, gangling phase, the confident set of his shoulders giving him an altogether unfamiliar air. And yet the pangs of adolescent infatuation that had plagued her whenever she had looked at him through the years were entirely absent.

Had she ever loved Ron, or had she imagined him in her mind into someone she could safely care for?

_There's something in you that needs to take on the impossible,_ Tom's voice whispered in her head, cool and smooth and taunting. _You have steel in your eyes, darling._

She might have been about to say something—the words were trembling on the edge of her lips—when the door opened behind Ron and a pretty girl in an apple green coat emerged, whistling cheerfully. It took Hermione a moment to place her: Katie Bell, a former member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Katie Bell, who linked arms with Ron and made to push a strand of hair out of his face before looking up and going wide-eyed at the sight of Hermione.

"Oh, Hermione, oh my God, it's been ages!" she said in a tone of artificial delight.

Hermione felt lightheaded, but after a moment she realized that she was smiling. Genuinely smiling. She was happy for Ron, she thought with dawning wonder. The three of them—she, Ron, Harry—had been to Hell and back together. They were unbreakable.

"Yeah," she said. "We should catch up some time, er, the three of us." She gave what she hoped was a civil nod and turned to walk off.

She made it about ten yards before Ron raced up behind her and caught her sleeve, swiveling her around. Katie walked off tentatively in the background, shuffling her feet.

"I'm sorry," said Ron abruptly.

"I—What?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't handle it, all right? I could never handle it. I don't think you realize—" He took a deep breath. "You have the power to hurt me like no one else can, Hermione, and I guess after everything I had to decide. I just couldn't anymore."

She took his hand, which felt warm in the crisp November air. Tom's hands were always cool and soft and dry.

"I'm sorry too," she said.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ Tom's voice echoed in her head.

* * *

"You haven't been answering my owls," Ginny commented, uncorking her butterbeer and sitting down across from Hermione in the Leaky Cauldron.

"I've been busy," said Hermione evasively.

"You've been avoiding facing up to the truth," Ginny retorted, her eyes snapping.

Hermione looked down at her own glass of mead and her stomach churned. She pushed it away, wrinkling her nose.

"I have something for you," said Ginny suddenly, pulling a small white envelope from her bag. She handed it to Hermione with an air of mild distaste, as though she did not like to allow her fingers to come into contact with the paper.

"What in Merlin's name—?" Hermione muttered as she slit open the envelope and pulled out the letter inside. It was written in a neat, slanting hand she thought she recognized, though the sight set off alarm bells in the back of her head.

"He gave it to me." Ginny gave a small sigh that was more like a tut of impatience, and seemed to force herself to speak the next word. "Tom. Once, when he came out of the diary, he put me in a sort of trance. Maybe it was the Imperius, I don't know. But he gave this to me and said "Make sure she gets it when she gets back." I didn't think anything of it at the time, obviously. I think he actually bewitched me to forget about it and just keep the letter. In any case, it popped back into my head this fall when you came back, and I've been debating whether or not to let you have it. But there we are."

Hermione gaped at her, open mouthed, and held Tom's letter in trembling hands. Of course, the Tom in the diary would not have been subject to the memory loss that had affected the real Tom. He would have remembered each entry written about her. Oh Merlin, he would have remembered.

"I haven't read it," Ginny added, as though Hermione's stunned silence implied she had.

"I—of course. Thank you."

Ginny bit her lip and looked at Hermione for a long time. It was impossible to discern whether she looked sad or irritated.

"You shouldn't read it," she said at last. "You shouldn't let him back in your head."

Hermione folded the letter and put it in her pocket, saying nothing. Ginny shrugged.

Later that evening however, alone in her room, Hermione tore the letter out of her pocket and swiped impatiently at the tears blurring her vision, desperate for Tom's words.

_Hermione,_

_ If this letter finds you then my plans have no come to fruition. I shall deem it safe to assume, then, that this letter will not find you, and speak freely._

_ The circumstances surrounding our separation are not clear to me. The bond connecting me to the other fragments of myself is a complex one. I know only that some twist of fate snatched you from me, or else that you came to the decision to erase yourself from my life on your own. The thought has lacerated me, Hermione, tortured me day and night. I cannot accept it and yet I cannot blame you if such was your choice. I know—believe me, I know—that in our short time together you accorded me more consideration than I should ever have dared to hope, considering our previous acquaintance._

_ If your leaving was a choice then I will respect you enough not to try to sway you from it, though it pains me more than you can imagine to do so. If you were otherwise taken from me, however, know this: I will not stop, I will not rest, I will not draw a single breath free of wrath until I have found you and those who took you from me._

_ I am sorry, Hermione, I'm sorry, you have to believe me._

_ Given the manner of this communication you may not. You may think this a cruel joke. But the girl was a means to you, you can't begrudge me that. There is nothing I would not do, no path I would not take, to see your face again if only for one second. I would tear Hogwarts down stone by stone if that was what it took. For all the trouble you caused me, for all the complications you brought, unwanted, for all the things you taught me, there is nothing I would not do. I would kill—and this you would not like, I know, but I don't apologize for it._

_ I have known for you a love as timeless as the embrace between the relentless crush of waves and the sea shore. I never fully knew myself before I fell into your trap, and by then it was too late. Don't mistake me, I don't regret it for a second. I'm writing like a sentimental fool, Hermione, what more proof do you need?_

_ I have loved you, and this, if I live a thousand years, if I raise armies and burn empires to the ground, will always be my greatest gift, the gift of you._

_ Some day, Hermione, I believe you will find your way back to me._

* * *

Hermione sat on the patched little sofa in the middle of her new flat, the only piece of furniture she had as yet purchased. It was a fairly modest residence for one rising so astronomically in the ranks of the Ministry. Her window faced on a fish and chip shop with a yellow awning, and the view was rather nice when the sun came up over the London skyline. But Hermione's heart was seldom stirred by the sunrise. It was dormant.

A knock at the door roused her from her reflections and she rolled her eyes, ready to slam the door in Rita Skeeter's face for the eleventh time. An exclusive exposé on her time in the past was the last thing Hermione needed leaking to the _Prophet_.

"Harry?" she said with undisguised shock when she opened the door.

Harry pushed past into her flat without invitation and sat on the arm of the sofa, which was really more of a poorly stuffed armchair. Hermione waited, silent and tense, for him to speak. Seconds passed, until finally she could stand it no longer.

"Why are you here?"

"Ginny gave me a talking to," Harry admitted.

Hermione snorted.

"She did. She told me..." Harry took a deep breath, avoiding her gaze. "She told me to get my head out of my arse and come see you. She said—The thing is—Well, she fell in love with _him_ once, too."

"She was just a child. She didn't know who he was," said Hermione very quietly.

Harry leveled a shrewd look at her. "Do you really believe that?"

Hermione felt tears sting her eyes and forced herself to breathe evenly.

"You're the only person who's never left me, Hermione," Harry went on. "Through the Triwizard, the DA, even when we were hunting horcruxes. Even when I may have given you reason to. You've never deserted me, and I think I owe you the same."

"Oh, Harry!" Her resolve crumbled and she threw her arms around him, sobbing and hiccoughing gracelessly into his shoulder. She had not realized how much she had missed Harry's stabilizing presence, like an anchor in her life, always. And there was something curiously calming about him now, almost otherworldly: he had known death and come out smiling. She felt some small portion of her anxiety melt away as he patted her back awkwardly, trying to disengage her arms from around his neck.

"Yeah, all right," he said, sounding uncomfortable. "Just, er, take deep breaths, Hermione, it'll be okay. There's sort of another reason I'm here, as well."

She looked up at him with narrowed eyes, sensing an ambush.

"Thing is," Harry continued, confirming her suspicions, "I'm going to need you to come on a bit of a trip with me to explain."

* * *

With a crack they materialized on a hilltop overgrown with brambles, and Hermione looked around, frowning.

"The Forest of Dean?" she said.

"Yeah, fond memories," said Harry drily. "C'mon, it's about a mile off."

"Why can't we apparate directly to our destination?"

"Because the Ministry's roped it off, and there are anti-apparition charms on it all the way around. Muggle-repelling spells too. It's been an uproar, I'll tell you. Lucky the Auror Office caught wind of it right off, and I asked to oversee things. Given—well, one thing and another, they couldn't really refuse."

With each word he spoke Hermione was overcome with a mounting sense of foreboding. At length they came to a clearing in which an enormous violet tent had been erected, towering over the treetops. A veritable battalion of stern-faced Aurors paced the perimeter of the area, tapping their wands against their sides or else casting menacing glances all around them. They did not look cheered by Harry's appearance, but stopped him at the entrance to the tent.

"Pass-phrase," said an Auror Hermione did not recognize, but who looked to have lost most of her left arm and leg.

"I am Harry James Potter, member of the Auror office, and I owe Savage and Chiswick eight galleons from a bet over whose Patronus could run fastest."

The Auror frowned at Harry's choice of pass-phrase, but stepped aside to let Harry enter.

"She's with me," Harry said hurriedly when she began to advance on Hermione, and the Auror retreated with many sullen glances.

Inside the tent, it transpired, was... another, smaller tent.

"Harry, what's going on," Hermione demanded.

"Do you remember Ginny giving you a letter from, you know, Riddle, a few months ago?"

"She—yes."

"And what did you do with that letter?"

Hermione looked down at her hands, unsure how to explain herself. "I burned it. I just needed..."

But Harry ignored her embarrassment and said, "That was my theory. Hermione, remember that research you did on horcruxes before we set off with Ron? You said the only way to fix a soul so damaged was remorse—true remorse."

"Yes..."

"Well, I don't know quite how it happened, exactly, or why _here_. Maybe it's because this is the place where you wore the locket longest, when I was unconscious. Some sort of connection. But you see, I think the Riddle in the diary remembered you and... Well, it's unbelievable to me, but then I should know by now you're never wrong. You must have—gotten through to him somehow, as mad as it sounds. And when I destroyed the diary, the only trace of that Riddle that was left was the letter Ginny kept all those years and gave to you. It became sort of like—like the opposite of a horcrux. An object predicated entirely on remorse, is how Robards puts it. But it was dormant until you set it free; you burned it. You see, when you decided to stay in the past with Riddle you did the same thing as my mother in a way. You were willing to risk sacrificing your life to save all of us and save Riddle from himself. And that protection, the thing that kept me alive so many times, it was powerful enough to form a connection with the magic in the letter. Just like the Riddle in the diary wanted to sap Ginny's life force to regain his body. The strength of your magic... Well, see for yourself."

Harry's words rang in her ears, distorted, impossible. Her feet marched her forward of their own volition and she managed to stumble through into the second, smaller tent, where she was alone. No, not quite alone. A few feeble rays of winter sunlight filtered through the tent's canvas roofing, illuminating the roots twisting through the leaf-strewn ground, and at the center of it stood the remnants of an ancient tree trunk that had been bewitched into a sort of throne. Heavy steel chains sprang from the ground around the tree and wound around its base, bathed in unnatural shadow. The Ministry wizards had cast their charms with great care.

It was not until she drew closer, only a few feet from the tree, that Hermione became aware of the figure of a man sitting entwined in the midst of the chains. He was restrained too heavily to allow much movement, but sat quietly with his head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes.

Hermione's heart stopped.

He was unclothed, and rather badly scratched and bruised from a trek through the cold forest, but his skin shone pale and resplendent in the gloom. He had all the casual elegance her memory had never quite been able to capture to perfection. She fell to the ground at his side, her breathing ragged, and whispered "Oh, my God," again and again, running her hands up his limp arms to his face and kissing his cold skin.

He stirred at the sound of her voice and raised his head, seeming to come out of a deep trance. His eyes locked on hers. She knew a hundred lifetimes' worth of bliss in that moment, as his lips stretched into a slow, easy smile.

"Hello, Hermione," he said.

* * *

**A/N:** Fin! Well, didn't I tell you guys to trust me? OK, so here's the thing. I know this may not be the "Hermione stays in the past and wedding and babies, etc" ending some of you were hoping for, but I feel like it was clear early on from my writing that I don't do fluff. I wanted to write this story in my own way and I hope, at the very least, you don't feel you've wasted your time reading this far. I've really enjoyed writing this and reading your lovely feedback, and I think I'd like to try Tomione again sometime. I have a few new fics on the go, including some Dramione and a one-shot from Umbridge's POV (what can I say I'm nuts, and I love a challenge), but I'm not sure yet what I'd like to do next with this pairing. I would definitely be open to suggestions/requests, so feel free to drop me a line any time. It's been grand, you guys. So long for now, I hope to see you again soon :)


	16. Coda

**A/N:** Yes, it's another chapter! OK lovelies, here's the deal (if anyone is still around). I've been wrestling with the one-shot epilogue I promised for a few weeks now, and it was turning into a 20,000+ word beast that I wasn't willing to trim down, and the story wasn't half told. So in the end I gave in and figured why not tell it properly and go with a chaptered fic? But since it's so inextricably connected with the original story, I can't really post it as a standalone. Thus, this will now officially be a story in two parts- past and present. This chapter is a coda of sorts (it brings the previous movement to a close and opens the next, so to speak), and part two of the story is titled "To Reign In Hell." Fair warning, it will be quite dark. Maybe more so than before. I hope I haven't confused you too terribly much, and that you'll enjoy the revival of this fic, which I just couldn't get out of my head. And rest assured, this isn't a ploy to milk an old plot just a bit more. I have a fleshed out plan for how it will go.

Also, in case anyone is interested, the official playlist for this fic is now posted on my 8tracks account, username ISolemnlySwear, titled "Nothing but your soul." Yikes, these author's notes really do drag on. I'll post reviewer acknowledgments at the end this time. Cheers!

* * *

**PART TWO ~ TO REIGN IN HELL**

* * *

**CODA**

Darkness enveloped him, pressing in from all sides. Riddle remained patiently in his seat, silent and unmoving. The dark suited him just fine; there was no need to overplay his hand just yet.

A faint sound captured his attention—a doorknob turning. Riddle smiled. They really ought to have left him there a little longer, made him wait. They must be positively reeling at his presence.

The door opened and a sliver of light cut through the room with two men silhouetted behind it. One tall and grizzled, one short with untidy dark hair. Both wore robes emblazoned with purple "M's" on the front.

_So this is the Ministry,_ Riddle said to himself. Of course they had brought him here. _Their first mistake._ A wiser man would have kept him captive in a place that might actually provide something of a challenge. Hogwarts, perhaps. But then, these hired Ministry grunts had never been the brightest sort, even the ones dressed up in grandiose functionary's robes.

"The door," rasped the taller of the two men, handing his associate a sheaf of paperwork and flicking his wand to conjure a candle on the table before Riddle. "It's to be locked and imperturbabled."

With a nod the shorter man turned to secure the door, and in the candlelight Riddle recognized his face: Potter. Now, that certainly put an interesting spin on things. Until now he had only glimpsed the boy from afar in this time. Up close he was an oddity. Fairly short, thin, and unassuming—yet he radiated an undeniable aura of sharpness and energy.

The kinds of qualities that made for brave, dead men.

The man in charge faced Riddle, who could have sworn he saw his hands tremble for a fraction of a second before he slammed them down on the table. Riddle was possessed, for a brief moment, by an overpowering urge to reach out and break the man's arms, to tear them from their sockets (_Scream for me it's all right just do it just scream scream—_). A lesson, of sorts: Never show weakness in front of your opponents.

Well, but outright viciousness this early on in the proceedings would be poor form. Riddle mastered himself and plastered his most attentive look on his face, waiting.

"Do you know who I am?" the taller man asked.

Riddle waited one, two, three seconds, stringing out the silence for the simple pleasure of seeing his interrogator's face twitch, before saying, "An Auror."

This man was not an Auror. It was clear as day in his demeanor, the way he held himself, and the lack of scars. But a guileless manner could go far, so far. It could lull even the most suspicious minds in time.

The man smiled, but Potter held up his hand.

"He's lying," said Potter calmly.

Suddenly Riddle was not so very entertained. So this was to be the way of it, then? So be it.

"Apologies, sir," he said. "Could you be the Minister?"

"My name is Esher," the first man replied sharply. "I work for the Department of Mysteries. Potter has made us aware of your talent for advanced wandless magic. In response, the Department has developed these." He pulled a pair of gleaming gold manacles from an inner pocket of his coat. "They will prevent you from casting any spells whatsoever. You will wear them at all times."

Ingenious, if primitive. Riddle waited for Potter to turn away for the briefest of moments to gather his concentration and cast a shield charm around the manacles. He could certainly not kill anyone without a wand, but these sorts of basic spells were second-nature. Docilely, he held up his arms, wrists upturned, to signal his submission. Oblivious, Esher shackled him.

"Hang on," said Potter, looking up from the paperwork through which he had been rifling. "What is this about? '_Enhanced interrogation menthods..._' Who approved this?"

"The Minister's office sent it down," Esher said dismissively.

"I don't believed Kingsley signed off on this. We agreed we wouldn't do things like Barty Crouch this time around."

Esher fixed his savage gaze on Potter, who did not flinch but began to fiddle with his collar in an unconscious way. It was freshly pressed and starched; the sort of look that did not come naturally at his age. Potter's parents were dead, so the state of his uniform could most likely be attributed to a woman. At the very least, a woman to give instruction to a house elf—though in this era, for all he knew, perhaps the men did the washing. Still, he watched Potter swallow with difficulty and knew that he was right.

_Oh Tom, no one's ever understood me like you. I don't think Harry Potter even knows I exist. He's so brave, so heroic, and I'm not anything. I don't know if he'll ever feel the same way about me as I do about him..._

So Potter had come around to the little redhead's qualities after all. Riddle could easily guess what was going through his head at present, much as Potter might think himself above him: to uphold his precious Gryffindor righteousness, or to give in to vengeance for the girl? Riddle almost wanted to roll his eyes, a juvenile impulse but a strong one. It wasn't as if he had actually killed the girl in the end. The only positive thing that could be said of this development was that he now knew Potter must not have designs on _her_.

Hermione. The first face his new eyes had seen in this world (_Mine mine mine mine—_). His salvation and his greatest prize.

Objective reasons to kill Potter were wearing thin. Still...

"Make certain that the door is secured on your way out," said Esher, breaking the tense silence with triumph in his eyes.

But Potter frowned. "I'm not leaving."

"Potter, the wizarding community owes you a debt, no one would deny it. For that reason you've been let in on a case that would otherwise be far above your pay grade. But the directives for this procedure come from on high. Now, this is a direct order: secure the door on your way out. I won't repeat myself."

Amusingly, Potter smiled and squared his shoulders.

"Are you going to remove me yourself?" he asked. There was far too much steel in Potter's eyes: he might easily prove a problem, a liability.

Sure enough, this time in the battle of wills Potter matched Esher stare for stare, and the latter lost. Capitulating, he shrugged as though it was of no great importance to him one way or the other and said, "Not a word. You're to stand to the side, Potter, and you're not to move." He turned his back on him and tapped his wand against the table. It had been three days since Riddle had eaten anything, and yet the hunger for magic, for power, that gripped him when he saw faint sparks emerge from the end of the wand was a hundred times stronger than any complaint his body could make. He could summon the wand, use it to dispose of Potter, spend a little quality time with Esher at his feet—burn his skin to a crisp, slice out his eyes—and walk out of this cell into the day, the first day of a new age.

And for Potter, Hermione would never speak to him again.

"Yes?" he said quietly, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"First, you will drink this." Esher produced a small vial of clear liquid—Veritaserum, how original—and handed it to Riddle, who tossed it back without protest. If Esher was surprised by Riddle's cooperation he did not show it. He snatched the vial away and conjured a most uncomfortable looking chair for himself, sitting down so that they were face to face.

Riddle leaned back against his own chair, perfectly at ease. He knew he was safe. Perhaps if Potter had been conducting the interrogation... But this man was a hired scarecrow; likely he was not even Head of his Department. They did not want to show all their cards right away. _Their second mistake,_ he mused, because this man would never ask the right questions. This man could not even conceive of what the right questions might be.

"Why are you here?" Esher asked in tones of velvet masking steel. Presumably he meant to sound threatening.

Laughable.

"I am here at what I presume is the Ministry of Magic because I was escorted here under extreme duress by a detachment of Aurors." The words were pulled from Riddle independent of his will. It was an uncomfortable feeling, not having control of his own tongue, but not insurmountable. All that was required was concentration—answer _only_ the question asked, and nothing more—and he was still at an advantage. "I am here in the year 1999 because the value of remorse was impressed upon me in rather a memorable way, and thus after the destruction of my horcruxes my body was rebuilt on a foundation of agony."

"We already have this information," Esher snapped, reaching impatiently for a piece of parchment Potter was holding out for him. "'_Testimony corroborated by Hermione Jean Granger of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, only known person to have survived time travel beyond the usual threshold of five months, apart from Harry Potter. Intent of self-sacrifice proffered by Granger in the year 1945 believed to have supplied magical protection to an artifact containing an imprint of remorse projected by Tom Marvolo Riddle, creating effects similar to those of a horcrux_.' We know all about you, all that's worth knowing, already."

"I can say with a fair amount of certainty that you do not," Riddle replied, unable to stop himself.

Esher's eyes narrowed. "I shall phrase my question another way. What are your _intentions_ in being here?"

"To gather information in the hopes of better understanding the future I've entered," said Riddle at once.

Nothing but the truth. His immediate intentions, for the duration of his confinement in the bowels of the Ministry, were based in curiosity. He was fairly certain that he could have walked out of his cell any time he chose. Yet there was so much more to be gained by remaining, and observing.

Esher and Potter exchanged a glance.

"It's impossible to lie under Veritaserum," said Potter slowly.

"Not necessarily so. One could ingest a slow-acting antidote ahead of time in anticipation of an interrogation."

"Fifty-four years ahead of time?"

"Or he could have sealed away portions of his plans away in his own mind. It is possible, though few who have attempted it have ever succeeded. The process is similar to obliviation."

"And to get at the thoughts that have been hidden—?"

"We must break through the barriers of the mind." Esher stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor behind him, sounding like screams. To press the arm of that chair against Esher's throat and feel the steady pulsing of blood beneath would have been satisfying, if short-sighted.

"Is there anything more you wish to say?" Esher asked.

"Now that you mention it," Riddle replied, "I thought I might congratulate Potter on his conquest. The Weasley girl—she was strong, if I recall. Fought tooth and nail every step of the way."

This, decidedly, had been the thing he felt most like saying. There was no ounce of a lie in it.

Something flashed in Potter's eyes, and he raised his wand.

"_Imperio!_"

"You have not been issued the proper authorization for the use of that spell, Potter!" Esher bellowed. "Stand down, I say, _stand down!_"

Riddle smiled, unaffected. "You'll need to do better than that, you know. What was it Hermione used to say to me about Unforgivables? You need to _mean_ them."

"What did you do to Ginny?" Potter demanded, his wand pointed directly at Riddle's throat.

"Nothing much," Riddle replied, standing up at last so that he faced Potter head on. "Certainly nothing like what you're thinking of. To own the truth, Potter, at first she rather seemed to like it—serving me, I mean. Running errands, doing my bidding. She practically _begged_ for it."

He was hoping Potter might stop dallying and get down to business—curse him properly. But before the former got the chance, Esher knocked him aside and bellowed "_Crucio!_"

There it was at last. The bare, unvarnished truth weaker souls cowered from: they all were beasts out for blood, given the right motivation. All that was necessary was to discover the right leverage, and they would inevitably bend, no matter their ideals.

Riddle's muscles tensed and his face contorted, but he did not cry out. Pain was nothing. He had known a hundred lifetimes' worth of pain far worse than this when he had first regained his body, when the remorse had set in. Not remorse for the murder of his father, certainly, but a pure dagger of dread piercing to the center of his being. For Hermione, and the things he had put her through. For the future he had ravaged without his knowledge, cutting down all hope of advancement for the magical community.

Pain was nothing (_Give me more I won't scream more pain more more—_). Pain was motivation.

Riddle's breathing was shallow now, and his limbs were twitching, sending him sitting violently back down in his chair. He ought to have been able to hold up against the onslaught, but then he had not eaten or slept. It mattered not. He had gotten what he wanted. If the Weasley girl had never given Potter details of her escapades with his diary, it was because she still harbored mixed feelings about them deep down. Which meant that before long she would seek him out. He only had to be patient.

"Stop!" said Potter unexpectedly after several hours—or perhaps it was several minutes—and the pain lifted. "If you keep at it too long you could break his mind completely, and then we'd never get anywhere."

But he had averted his eyes, the soft-hearted fool. Famous Potter could not stomach the suffering of others. It was no wonder Hermione cared for him.

Esher let out a sibilant sigh of a breath that seemed to go on and on, the muscles in his arms tensing over and over. Then he turned on his heel quite abruptly and left the room without a word.

Potter remained for only a moment more, long enough to give Riddle a penetrating look he was loathe to admit reminded him a little of Dumbledore. He reached into his pocket and brought out a brown paper bag containing what smelled like stale sandwiches—he could have conjured them instead, but Potter must not want to allow Riddle a glimpse of his wand—and threw them on the table.

"I won't have you die of starvation just yet," said Potter without looking at him. "But if you find a way to harm anyone while you're here, I'll kill you myself. I've done it before."

Then he swept from the room, leaving Riddle once again in darkness.

* * *

Eleven days.

For eleven days and nights Riddle was kept in the same cell at the Ministry, rarely sleeping, refusing every meal he could afford to. He had no doubt that the food would contain some manner of potion to dull his senses. Every morning he received a visit from Esher, who unlike Potter seemed to have the fortitude for torture so long as the proper paperwork had been filed. Riddle never opened his lips, never made a sound, as the pain wracked through him wave after wave. Pain was nothing. He could have withstood a year of it, if need be. A hundred years.

On the twelfth day she came to him.

The door opened and whispers reached his ears, though he was careful not to move or give any indication that he could hear. Yet he recognized her voice at once, and Potter's as well.

"... didn't tell me they'd been torturing him," she hissed.

"What did you think was going to happen? The upper levels are calling this a complete disaster. The public was just beginning to feel safe again. I can't imagine what would happen if anyone found out. The cover up has been massive. I had to lobby for a week to convince the Wizengamot to rule out the Dementor's kiss, let alone _Avada Kedavra_ on the spot."

"Why... why did you?"

"Because it's important to know more about why he's here," said Potter flatly. There was a pause in which they simply looked at one another, then he added, "I can buy you twenty minutes. After that you have to vanish, and quickly. You haven't even got near the clearance for this."

"Thank you, Harry."

She entered the room, closing the door on Potter, and they were alone.

Hermione was a miracle. She was dressed in plain black robes with her hair unkempt and only the flickering candlelight to illuminate her face, and his eyes were glued to her, and he would never look away. She had a feral quality about her that he could find nowhere else. She was looking at him with a muted sort of resentment that colored her cheeks a maddeningly lovely shade of pink.

"You—You look—" she stuttered, stumbling into a chair.

He could only drink her in as avidly as if she were a glass of water and he dying of thirst.

"What is it?" she asked. "I've never seen that look on your face before, not once."

"I'm happy," he told her simply.

She seemed to deflate all at once, her shoulders slumping and her mouth falling open in a small "o" of surprise. He thought that she, too, was happy, though she was trying to conceal it.

They looked at one another for an aeon, memories of their days at Hogwarts passing between them. At last she shook her head.

"You put Ginny through _hell _to get here."

Riddle frowned. "I didn't kill her."

"Not for lack of trying."

"Is it an apology you want? Because I'm not sorry. It led me back to you."

"You really have no idea what you did to her, and to Harry." There was real venom in her voice. It was as though she truly did not understand his chain of reasoning. And yet she was not the saintly, pristine little thing she liked to think she was. She had blood on her hands; _his_ blood. She had actively participated in his murder.

That really ought not to have made him begin to get hard right there in his cell.

"What do you have to say about the Basilisk?" she persisted.

Questions, questions, when all he wanted was to feel the warmth of her skin. What did she expect of him?

"What about the Basilisk?"

"Tom, don't you dare—"

"I had no intention of hurting you," Riddle admitted. "I was after the Malfoy boy. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"_What?_"

"He was willing to give up your identity to that madwoman who tortured you at the Malfoy estate. I saw it in your memories."

Hermione merely gaped at him, so Riddle stood, his manacles clinking. He walked around the table and knelt before her, breathing in the smell of her hair until he felt lightheaded.

"Now why would I want you petrified?" he whispered very close to her ear, grazing her skin with his teeth and moving down along her jaw. She moaned softly and tipped her head back, but Riddle tossed his hands up and behind her head, pulling her back in with the chain of his handcuffs. "If you were made of stone," he went on, now nipping at her collarbone, "how could I do this?"

He moved lower, biting gently at her breast through her blouse. She shuddered and pulled him up brusquely to kiss him. Merlin, but he had forgotten the blissful oblivion he found in Hermione. Why had he never known, never been made aware, that it was possible to feel this way? That he could want something even more than life eternal...

"We aren't done discussing this," she said, breaking away for a moment.

"We are for now." He slipped his hand under her waistband, but she pushed him away.

"There isn't time. Listen, you have to tell me why you're here. If you have some grand plan I... I'm going to try to treat with the Wizengamot and get you moved somewhere that isn't so grim, at the very least. But I have to go away for a little while next week, so we have to work quickly."

"You have to go away," Riddle repeated, incensed. There was not a chance he was going to let her get away so easily.

"Rubeus Hagrid got married," Hermione explained. "He's taking the rest of the year off from his teaching duties to honeymoon in Hungary. Something about a dragon reservation. I've been asked to replace him temporarily at Hogwarts because of my experience dealing with magical creatures."

"You'll make a good teacher, I'm sure."

She offered him a brief smile that did not reach her eyes. "Yes, but—"

"I could join you. I never had the chance to undress you in a tower."

"Tom! This isn't a joke, you're confined here and—and you look as though you haven't eaten in weeks, and you're not going anywhere. It makes me... You can't join me, you're a danger to Harry, I won't let anything happen to him—"

"Hermione," he cut across her. "If I wanted him dead, he would be."

"N—No, you... I mean you—"

"Go to Hogwarts, Hermione. Write to me. Enjoy yourself. I'll see you before long."

She stared at him, her lips still swollen from their kiss.

"I won't stop until Esher is out of the way," she vowed, cupping his face with her hand (_Mine mine mine—_).

"I know."

* * *

"_Crucio!_"

Everything was fire, his nerves were searing, his lungs were filling with poison, but pain was nothing, nothing—

"Enough."

Potter burst into the room holding a bright purple memo. Esher lowered his wand, glowering.

"If you haven't gotten anything out of him by now then you aren't going to," Potter insisted. "I've got a memo from the Minister here. All forms of 'enhanced interrogation' are to cease immediately. He's to be moved to cell block seven under the old wartime courtrooms. We can't risk Azkaban yet. He can't be allowed near the other prisoners."

"You're incredibly trusting," Riddle remarked to Potter once Esher had left, muttering darkly to himself.

"I wouldn't trust you if Merlin himself vouched for you. Not if I lived a million years. But I trust Hermione with my life."

The manacles around his wrists weighed heavily on him. How he would like to simply cast them off, along with this charade...

They moved him at noon, to a cell with windows, a pitcher of water, and a bed. The windows were an illusion, of course, and he was no less a prisoner here. However, as Riddle had suspected, even the keenest of men could be lulled into a false sense of security in time. He had been shackled to the ground in a tent in the forest of Dean for a month, and he had now been in the Ministry for two weeks. The authorities seemed to have decided that if he was going to break out he would have done it already.

Because he had wanted them to think so. But there was more than one form of escape.

When all the Aurors on rotation had grown tired of bursting into the cell to gawk at him and only a few guards remained posted outside the door, she made herself known. She had been hiding in the small cupboard by the window for who knew how long—an impressive feat, truth be told, to have evaded the notice of the guards for so long.

"Riddle," said Ginny Weasley, emerging from the cupboard and removing the invisibility cloak that had covered her. She looked at him with more disdain even than Esher. Exactly the sort of hatred that could be molded into loyal service over time, through pain or promise. If only he had time to spare. But she was nothing more than a means to an end. He had learned from his mistakes in Hermione's memories. He would always have a back-up plan.

"Ginevra," he said, giving the same low bow that had once enchanted her.

"Don't you _dare_ say my name," she spat, mindless of the irony of her words.

"As you wish." He waited patiently, watching her. She had grown into a fine specimen, though far too easily ruled by her emotions. Something deep in the recesses of his mind stirred, and he longed to erase the fiery spirit from her eyes. To snuff out her life like a candle—the ultimate proof of power; holding a life in the palm of one's hands.

Unnecessary. These were the kinds of impulses that had led him astray the first time.

"I need to know," she breathed at last. "Harry says you came back to life through _remorse._" She sounded as though she did not believe it for a moment. "I need to know how... All along, when you were in the diary, using me—How could you have been capable of remorse?"

"Not all guilt is the same," Riddle replied pensively. He had asked himself that very question often enough. "It can stem from sorrow, from regret, or from love."

"_Love?_" Her eyes widened. For the first time she seemed nonplussed. "Hermione? You—you can't be serious."

"Certainly I love her. I was nearly torn asunder by it. You've really no idea of the pain that comes with reconstituting a ruined soul."

"I don't believe you. Stay away from her."

"As stimulating as I find this discussion, Ginevra," Riddle interrupted, "I think the time has come for you to serve a purpose. _Vos sermonem meum servabit_."

As soon as he spoke the key phrase her eyes went blank and dull, and her arms fell to her sides. He had implanted the command in her mind long ago, when she was still a malleable wide-eyed schoolgirl. She was as good as Imperiused now.

"Ginevra, my dear, I would like you to tell me that you will be in contact with the Minister soon."

She nodded at once. "I will be, yes. At the unveiling party for the new Fountain of Magical Brethren. Kingsley and Harry and I are sharing a private box."

"Excellent. Now, when _Harry_ steps away and you find yourself alone with the Minister, you are going to place him under the Imperius curse."

"I am, yes."

Riddle smiled. "You will instruct him to issue an order for the relocation of my captivity. I will be imprisoned at Hogwarts from now on. It is an excellent idea. The castle is also where the Philosopher's stone was kept, after all. Some of the most powerful wizards and witches in the world reside there. I will be well in hand there."

"You will be," she repeated dutifully.

"Good girl. You can go now, Ginevra. Ah," he held up a finger, stalling her as she turned to leave. "But you can't tell Harry Potter that you were here, can you?"

She shook her head vehemently, and Riddle dismissed her, murmuring "_Terminus_" just as she cloaked herself once more and stepped out the door. Her senses would return to her, but not her memory.

All he could do now was wait. One sunrise after another, he waited. Riddle was good at waiting. His nights were filled with shifting, aimless dreams in which Hermione always seemed to be cloaked in fog just around the corner, so near yet unattainable. He had always had extremely vivid, visceral dreams, and the change unsettled him, but he imagined it to be a side effect of his rebirth. He passed the time by levitating the pitcher of water around the room, focusing his precision so that not a drop was spilled. A risky game, perhaps—but his skill had always counterbalanced his risk-taking.

Another week passed, until one afternoon Esher appeared, looking thoroughly cowed. Riddle knew before the man even opened his mouth that he had won.

"Get up," Esher growled at him. "You're being taken to Hogwarts."

* * *

**A/N:** Hope it was worth the wait. Writing Riddle is great fun. Let me know! And now for the most important part. To all of you who reviewed the last (and then final) chapter, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Each and every one of you made my day. **C-berries, mh21, LCB, sweets1111, cocoartist, CheshireCat23, brighteyes2889, NSteph2883, LivingandBreathingWords, Mz Malfoy, Killing Aphrodite, susan-black7, Dodge89, RandomGerman, Amelie in the library, Pristine Kirsten, Nattie0204, Thrae Elddim, Vampire Bassist, D, Aisha04, MaiWishes, Atlantean Diva, Emily, eribear, IDanceToForget.** You guys rock that is all.


	17. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Note to self- If you are engaged in a vicious battle with yourself over who is most appealing between Malfoy and Riddle, you have some issues with a capital Yikes. Anyway, in more relevant news, I'm so glad many of you have stuck around for the revival of this story! Thank you so much for your reviews: **CheshireCat23, Rinou, thelightningscar, IDanceToForget, LCB, HelloIamGracie, NSteph2883, Atlantean Diva, Akaru chan, sugurrushx3, Shyanne** ("The house is on fire. What a tremendous cockblock" is possibly my favorite review I've ever gotten)... I'm also glad you guys enjoyed Tom's POV. I'm going to try to alternate POV's a bit more from now on but it gets pretty exhausting to write him for too long (Tom may be pretty but let's be real he is a sociopathic mess, albeit a developing one). Cheers!

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

The early spring breeze rustled through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, bringing them to life and wresting whispers from the leaves. To the west ripples spread over the glassy surface of the Lake as if to signal some discontent deep below. Every now and again the hoot of an owl rent the night, plaintive and vaguely unsettled.

It was as though, without knowing it, the grounds had recognized something dark on the prowl.

A lantern bobbed slowly from the oak front doors of Hogwarts castle to the edge of the woods, where its owner joined five cloaked figures standing in a semi-circle, contemplating the cloudless night sky.

"It's done," said Harry, setting down the magical lantern, which glowed much more brightly than ordinary fire. "The Chamber's sealed itself with the enchantments Dumbledore's portrait recommended. Even with Parseltongue he couldn't get out. He'll have a regular supply of food delivered by Winky—we know from past experience she can certainly keep a secret. But she's been given strict instruction not to accept any orders from him."

"I've just come from speaking with the Centaurs," Hermione told him. "They've agreed to help the Aurors man the Forest border in case any of the Death Eaters still in hiding catch wind of this somehow and come calling."

"I still absolutely cannot see why it was necessary to send him here, Minister," said Minerva McGonagall, a pinched look on her face.

"It was the safest option," Kingsley said in his low, reassuring voice, and left it at that.

Hermione exchanged a quizzical glance with Harry, but Slughorn clapped his hands together as though the matter was closed. Esher stood still as a statue, still watching the sky.

"I assure you, Minister," said McGonagall coolly, "that if any harm comes to the students of this school as a result of these measures, we will be holding the Ministry responsible."

Kingsley seemed not to hear her. At last the assembled lot of them seemed to stir from their reflections and raised their wands in unison, casting protective enchantments that rippled over the grounds like a heat haze. Hermione did not think their spells would register particularly strongly next to the defensive magic already ingrained in the school, but she supposed they were better safe than sorry.

Also, she supposed that the very act of participating in the safeguard of the world against Tom cast her association with him in a very odd light.

When they had finished Esher strode away without a word, fading into the darkness of a forest path covered in a canopy of leaves black with winter's rot. What he was planning to do in the forest Hermione did not care to guess, but she was at least glad to see that she was not the only one watching his disappearance with a sharp eye. As McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley departed in tense silence Harry's eyes remained glued on the spot where Esher had vanished, until he turned abruptly to look at Hermione.

"Promise me you won't do anything rash," he said.

Hermione offered him a weak smile. "That's usually your job, isn't it?"

"I'm serious, Hermione. I don't want to know exactly what's between you and... _him_. But—"

"I promise, Harry."

He scrutinized her and seemed to come to the conclusion that there was no point pressing the issue, for he gave her a quick one-armed hug and followed behind Kingsley. Hermione checked her watch: it was only eleven. With luck she could manage a visit to Hagrid's before she had to go back to her office and face a night of sleepless contemplation.

There was no light on in the gamekeeper's cabin when Hermione knocked at the door but after a moment she heard Fang's booming bark and Hagrid opened up, beaming.

"Just 'bout finished packing, yeh nearly missed me!" he exclaimed, scooping her up in a bone-crushing hug.

"You're leaving tomorrow, then?"

Hagrid nodded, lighting a fire and setting a kettle on as Hermione took a seat in one of his oversized chairs. The sky outside was dusted with stars whose pinpricks of light cast an eerie glow upon the grounds, but from inside the cabin Hermione felt warm and secure. Swallowing down her nerves, she waited until he was seated before her with two cups of tea before speaking.

"Hagrid," she said, "I've been meaning to ask you something ever since I returned, you know, from... from the past."

"Yeah," said Hagrid without looking at her, handing her a saucer. "I thought yeh might."

"Well you see, we met, Hagrid, in the year 1944. I came to see you. And I know that Dumbledore claimed he obliviated everyone who was involved who could recognize me in the present—Avery and Lestrange and Moody as well—but I couldn't help noticing when I thought back..." She took a deep breath. "In third year when Ron and Harry weren't speaking to me and I used to have lunch here with you every weekend, I couldn't help but notice you looking at me oddly. I couldn't place it at the time, but it was like you were trying to remember something."

The corners of Hagrid's eyes crinkled as he gave her a crooked smile.

"Professor Dumbledore trusts me with his mos' important secrets, Hermione, yeh know tha'."

"So he really didn't obliviate you? You've known all along?" Hermione mused.

"Wasn' sure at firs', ter tell yeh the truth," Hagrid admitted. "Professor Dumbledore said it was bes' not ter linger on it. But 'round yer third year I started ter see the resemblance, an' by fourth year I was sure. 'Course I never said nuthing. Great comfort ter me an' Professor Dumbledore, though, knowing Harry had yeh with him."

"But why?" Hermione breathed. "For all you knew I could have... I could have been in league with Riddle."

"Ain't nobody would never think that 'bout yeh," said Hagrid indignantly.

Hermione rested her elbows against the table and cradled her head in her hands.

"I don't know, Hagrid. It was all supposed to be so clear going forward. Harry and Ron and I were going to defeat Voldemort and rebuild the school and get the jobs we'd always wanted, and things would be simple for once. Then I got sent back and—It seems as though nothing has been on track since then. Nothing is turning out the way it was meant to."

Hagrid looked at her for some time, stirring his tea to the peaceful sound of the crackling fire. At last he said, "I expected ter graduate Hogwarts an' work with dragons an' take care o' my old dad. It's not always the life yeh though' it would be, but it's a life, an' we have ter try an' be thankful fer that."

All at once Hermione felt ashamed of having lain all her complaints at Hagrid's feet when he, of all people, could understand what it felt like to have the future ripped away from him. But he did not look upset. He gave her a sympathetic pat on the arm that nearly sent her tumbling off her chair, and Hermione's heart swelled. These—the simple, good moments—were what made it all worthwhile.

* * *

The students were away on Easter holiday, and the castle was dormant. Hermione had begun devising a detailed, minute-by-minute lesson plan the moment McGonagall had contacted her, and so there was little left to do in that regard. She had set her assistant at the Ministry, Tully, to recruiting new members for S.P.E.W. Crookshanks was out chasing mice. The morning following their talk, Hagrid had left the school to embark on his honeymoon.

The minutes ticked by.

Hermione attempted to bury herself in _Beast, Being and Spirit: The Academician's Approach_, only to find to her horror that while the research on the cover was credited to a Griffin Persimmons, the book itself had in fact been ghost written by Wilbert Slinkhard. Incensed, she set the book resolutely aside.

The hands on the clock were surely moving too slowly?

_It's against the rules_, she told herself sternly. _Strictly forbidden_.

The shadows of Harry and Ron seemed to loom over her shoulder, telling her to live a little. They had been a corrupting influence from the first, though admittedly she had been quite willing to go along with their escapades when they went out of bounds. But hadn't Harry been the one to advise caution this time? She had given him her word.

_But Harry would never follow his own advice..._

The seconds slowed to a crawl.

Hermione jumped to her feet, making up her mind in a split second. The other Professors would likely be in bed, but she was now well within her rights to wander about the castle at any hour of the night she chose. Besides, if she was ever going to work out a way to have Tom released without endangering the whole world, she was going to need to speak to him. Hermione did not shrink from a challenge.

She made her way out of her office and down to the lower levels, wincing slightly as her footsteps echoed and clanged against the walls. At last she arrived at her destination and tickled the pear in the oil painting hung on the wall, which giggled and turned into a doorknob with a faint _pop_.

The moment she entered the kitchens Hermione was assailed by a clamoring mass of House Elves, their squeaky voices blending into an unintelligible cry of recognition and delight.

"Yes, it's lovely to see you all!" Hermione tried to say over the chaos, scanning the crowd. "I—Yes, hello! Is Winky here, by any chance?"

"Winky is here, Miss!" trilled a tiny voice, and the Elf cut her way through the crowd to stand proudly before Hermione, beaming. Hermione knelt before her while the others bustled away to look for sweets to heap upon her.

"How are you doing, Winky?"

"Winky is doing much better, Miss!" Winky told her, smoothing her clean, unblemished apron over her front and peering at Hermione through clear eyes. "Winky has given up the Butterbeer since she is hearing of Dobby's death, Miss. Dobby is always taking care of Winky and telling Winky, 'you can make something of yourself,' and now Winky is honoring him, Miss!"

"That's terrific!" Hermione exclaimed. "So you're accepting pay now? And benefits and things?"

"No, no, Winky could never shame herself so, Miss," said Winky, her tennis ball eyes widening in horror.

_Small steps_, Hermione told herself, attempting a smile.

"Well, Winky, I was wondering if you might do me a favor. I could do something for you in exchange, of course."

"Winky is happy to be helping in any way she can, Miss!" Winky replied at once.

Hermione cast a quick look around to make sure that none of the other Elves were watching, then said, "I need to go down into the Chamber of Secrets."

Winky's ears twitched in surprise but she nodded, eager to serve, and held out her hand for Hermione to grasp. The moment their hands touched Winky snapped her fingers and all the other Elves in the vicinity seemed to turn away at once, suddenly and mysteriously disinterested. Then, with a resounding _crack_, the kitchens vanished around them and Hermione's feet hit the stone floor of a room she had seen once before.

The Chamber of Secrets looked grander than she remembered. Perhaps it was because she had been otherwise preoccupied during her last visit. Hermione took a moment to gaze in awe at the high-vaulted ceiling and ornately carved stone serpents. Winky's eyes reflected the glittering drops of humidity dripping from the ceiling as the Elf gazed around, quaking where she stood. Hermione bit her lip, hoping she had not terrified her.

"Er, you can go if you like, Winky," Hermione said. "Would you mind coming back for me in about an hour?"

Winky nodded, still speechless.

Hermione twisted her hands guiltily. "And, er, it would be best if you didn't tell anyone about this."

"Winky is not saying a word, Miss."

Winky vanished without further ado and Hermione was left alone. Suddenly she felt as though she were in the heart of a crypt; she felt very small. A clacking noise caught her notice and she whipped around to see Tom stepping out from behind a stone pillar at the far end of the main hall of the Chamber, his eyes fixed upon her. His shirt was unbuttoned and his tie was slung over his arm, and she thought she might actually have interrupted his sleep. It was easy to forget that Tom was not infallible. She would never forget her shock at the haggard, skeletal look of him when she had first glimpsed him in his Ministry cell, starved and exhausted.

He looked more himself now, though his hair was longer and his cheeks a little hollowed. It suited him. Her stomach performed a dizzying back-flip and she reminded herself to breathe evenly.

"Rather rude to enter without knocking," he called out as she crossed the Chamber to stand before him, observing her surroundings. A small cot sat in a shadowy corner by the statue of Salazar Slytherin, with a rickety desk next to it. That was all.

"You weren't answering your doorbell," she said without much humor.

He took her arm in his hand and flipped it palm up, running his thumb along the inside of her wrist and staring off into the distance as though deep in thought. Absently he said, "Three days. I was expecting you, but I did think you might make me wait a bit longer."

"I missed you," Hermione replied honestly. "Really it's been months..."

"Try fifty years."

She smiled bitterly. "I'm not going to accept your justification for what you did to Ginny, so don't even try."

"I suppose I'll have to make it up to you somehow," he said quietly, his eyes glinting.

A soul intact. Dark eyes without a flash of red.

"Sit," Tom went on, leading her to the bed where she sat uncomfortably with her hands clasped in her lap. She could not see the great, crumbling skeleton of the Basilisk from this angle, but she knew it was there. "You're out of sorts. You haven't come to break me out, I imagine?"

"No, Tom."

"No. Bored of the castle already? I can't imagine schoolchildren offer much in the way of intellectual stimulation."

"I want to talk about why you're here," she said plainly. She thought his face might darken, but it was Tom, so his expression remained perfectly impassible, betraying not a hint of impatience.

"I'm here to do better than I could have done," he told her. "You gave me that chance."

"And what does that chance entail?"

Tom raised his fists, which were still bound together by golden shackles, and tilted his head. "Not a great deal, for the moment."

"Tom, I can't stand it if you lie to me."

"Is that so?"

He stood, gripping Hermione underneath her chin and pulling her to her feet so that she stood flush against him. Her blood was thundering against her ears and she could not quite tell if she was furious or enthralled. The darkness pressed in all around them, dulling her senses until all that was real was the feel of Tom against her.

"I think," he went on, "that _you're_ lying. You need me to be exactly as I am. You need someone difficult to manage, to make you feel like you're overcoming peril like always." He bit briefly at her bottom lip, sending a shiver down her spine. "So investigate all you like. Unravel the mystery. In the meantime, I think I'll show you what the Wizarding world has to offer."

"How do you plan to do that?" Hermione asked, her throat dry. He was tracing a finger along the back of her neck and blurring her thoughts somewhat.

"You have an Elf, haven't you? We can go wherever we like. There's a fascinating secret passageway in the cellar of Gladrag's Wizardwear that—"

"I can't take you out of this Chamber, Tom, you know that—"

"Are you honestly afraid that I might harm you—"

"It isn't myself I'm worried for—"

"Your intrepid little friends really don't interest me very much, Hermione—"

"You know what I mean. It would take nothing short of... of an Unbreakable Vow to make me really certain that—"

"Very well, then, let's make an Unbreakable vow."

Hermione gaped at him, thoroughly taken aback. He could not possibly mean it, could he?

Tom was watching her expectantly, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

"You—You're bluffing," she said through numb lips.

He sat down on the cot and held out his arm, the shackles clinking. Hermione's legs would no longer support her weight, so she sat down brusquely at his side.

"We would need a bonder," she said.

Tom shook his head. "In cases where a bonder is not available Wenlock's theorem allows for a—"

"I _know_ that," Hermione interrupted. "But we would both need a wand."

"No. It is only required that we both be _holding_ a wand. Yours will do." When she looked uncertain he added, "I once had Avery and Gibbon test the procedure out of curiosity."

"_Really—_"

He shrugged. "An exercise in fear. Give me your hand, Hermione."

She hesitated. So many things could go wrong. But an Unbreakable Vow was an absolute and inviolable bond. In addition, she knew that nothing in the world could make Tom admit what he had planned if he meant to keep it to himself. Legilimency could allow her access to his memories, but not his intentions. If she was going to get to the bottom of the matter, she would have to take a creative approach.

_Promise me you won't do anything rash_, Harry's voice echoed in her head. Her mind's eye, however, showed her an image of Harry jumping onto a dragon's back in the depths of Gringott's, and she raised her arm to clasp Tom's hand. Her wand was held aloft between them, and as his fingers closed over hers she felt a surge of energy leap from her wand and through her skin.

"A word of advice," Tom said before she could begin. "When formulating the Vow, make sure that your terms are... _very_ precise."

Hermione took a deep breath. She had read a transcript of the terms of the famous Unbreakable Vow between Millicent Bagnold and the Turkish Minister for Magic, which had prevented a war. Unfortunately the Turkish Minister's attempts to circumvent the Vow had had devastating consequences.

It would not come to that, she told herself firmly. There was trust here, as much as it was possible for anyone, ever, to trust Tom.

"Will you, Tom Riddle, refrain from any attempt to escape my presence if and when I take you with me out of the confines of your imprisonment?" Hermione began in a steely voice, her fingers tightening her wand. As an afterthought, she added, "As well as resisting any outside attempts to either kidnap you or set you free?"

"I will," said Tom without hesitation.

A fiery strand of magic burst forth from the tip of Hermione's wand and wrapped itself around their joined hands, burning at their skin. Hermione could feel the sting of fire as though she had held her hand over a candle for a moment too long, but did not move.

"And will you promise not to harm any person, magical _or_ Muggle, in the time aforementioned?"

"I will."

A second tongue of flame joined the first and wound itself around their hands, slithering in a mesmerizing pattern. Tearing her eyes away, Hermione gritted her teeth.

"And will you abide by any instruction I issue during this time?" she said, her voice almost too low to hear.

"I will."

The third and final strand of flame wound itself around their hands and momentarily glowed red-hot. When the flames had vanished Hermione released a breath she had not realized she was holding and rested her head against the stone wall. She felt suddenly drained, as though the spell had stolen some great reserve of vitality from her.

Tom sat up straight, flexed his hand, and reached forward without warning to kiss her. He was slow and thorough, running his tongue along her bottom lip and stroking her jaw with his thumb, but Hermione was too nervous to react at once. Slowly she softened and returned the kiss, though her nerves remained on a knife's edge. Finally Tom pulled away and looked at her, his expression unreadable. He was smiling, but she knew better than anyone that he could put on a smile as easily as a mask.

"Hermione," he said lightly, musingly. "You've really no idea what you do to me."

If he died, now, she would be responsible.


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N:** You guys, Tom is starting to try and get sassy, and I don't know, I have as hard a time controlling him as poor Hermione does. Who knew Tom with a soul was such a smartass? So I know a lot of you want more chapters from his POV but... the world is not a wish granting factory. (That's a tfios thing. If you're not into John Green you're doing the internet wrong.) I'll try to do another one with him soon I promise. As always many thanks to everyone who reviewed: **mh21, LCB, DangerIzMyGame, thelightningscar, CheshireCat23, Kiera-sama...** Oh and just a quick note which will make sense later- no, I'm not necessarily trying to set up the Viper as the big bad for this story. Tom will always be the Alpha Male. Just think of him as a wild card with no allegiances; dangerous. Okay, super long chapter, enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"Professor Granger? _Professor?_ Professor!"

Hermione jumped and turned, at last, to face the student who had been waving a hand frantically in the air. After only one full day of teaching she was not yet quite accustomed to being referred to as _Professor_. The title made her vaguely uncomfortable. Her conduct of late had not been that of a role model by any stretch of the imagination.

For instance, she could hardly keep from rolling her eyes when she saw who her interlocutor was: Ginny, a wide, sarcastic grin on her face.

"Yes?" Hermione croaked, struggling to compose her face.

"Burbage misfired his de-clawing incantation. Your lectern is on fire."

Hermione whipped around to see Rickard Burbage drop his wand guiltily. Sure enough, the wooden podium on which she kept her notes was ablaze, crackling merrily as the students looked on in alarm. Of all the ways to begin her first day as an instructor... She had thought she was doing so well. She had thoroughly enjoyed the meticulous construction of a lesson plan spanning the entire term, had remembered the names of all two hundred and eighteen of her students, and had earned gasps of awe when she had led the seventh year class through Hagrid's pumpkin patch to gaze upon a Thestral foal (at birth the creatures were nearly translucent). There remained very few students at Hogwarts, nowadays, who could not see the Thestrals.

With a flick of her wand Hermione extinguished the flames. She cleared her throat, looking determinedly away from Ginny.

"Well then, er, so that'll be enough for today," she said, making every effort to project confidence and shuffle her charred, blackened notes out of sight. "Please read the first three chapters of your textbooks and compose an essay on the historical origin of the myth of the Thestral's curse of misfortune for next class—" the students groaned in unison, "and have a lovely week. Er, Rickard, I'll speak to you for a moment if you please."

The sandy-haired Ravenclaw Chaser approached Hermione nervously as his classmates shuffled off, looking terrified that she might order him fed to a Chimera as punishment, at the very least.

"The counter-curse for counter-indicated magical combustion is '_Tetrius ignem_,'" she said. "You might want to remember that one. And I'm very sorry about your Aunt."

Harry had owled her earlier that week to warn her that a relative of a student and a high-ranking witch in the Department of International Magical Cooperation had been found dead during an Auror raid in North London. She could only imagine what a blow it must have been for the boy, little more than a year after his mother's death. Burbage looked up at her, surprised and clearly very much tongue-tied.

"I—Thank you—I mean—"

"If you need a few days' extension on the assignment do let me know," she told him, moving to pack up her things and depart.

Unexpectedly Burbage ran a hand through his hair and said, "It's just... It was all supposed to end when the war ended, wasn't it? The deaths. You fought with Harry Potter. Didn't you think it would end when you won?"

After some hesitation Hermione placed her hand on his arm.

"Yes," she said. "But there's a lot of unfairness in the world, which is why the fight never really ends. You can't let it get the best of you."

Burbage departed looking fractionally less sombre, and Hermione decided to use the remainder of her afternoon to run into Hogsmead. She Apparated directly to the village from the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds, tightening her cloak around her to ward off the late spring chill and throwing up her hood. There was no reason why she should feel so ill at ease entering the Apothecary at the end of the high street to seek out Polyjuice potion: being of age, she was well within her rights to purchase any potion she chose. Nevertheless, she felt as though a bright spotlight were shining on her the entire time.

"Hermione Granger!" exclaimed the shopkeeper when she placed a bottle of Polyjuice on the counter alongside several other items, so as not to seem suspicious. "An honor to receive you! Allow me to offer you our preferred customers' discount..."

This had been happening far too often since the war. Hermione could only imagine how Harry had endured it all his life. With a swift smile to the shopkeeper she swept her purchases away and was about to exit when an idea struck her.

She could not put just anyone's hair in the Polyjuice potion. A student was out of the question, and a teacher would be impossible. She needed to find as inconspicuous a disguise as possible for when she took Tom out of the Chamber. An unassuming young Hogsmead vendor would do nicely. But would it be unethical?

Well, after all, she was not planning to allow Tom to do anything that might put the person whose identity he was borrowing in jeopardy. She would hold the reins very tightly—a simple task, given the Vow he had made.

"You know," said Hermione, startling the shopkeeper just as he was about to leave the counter, "I've come in here several times before, but I've never seen you. Have you worked here long?"

Embarrassed by Hermione's sudden attentions, he flushed and stumbled over his words. "Only... only a few months, Mrs Granger."

"Please, call me Hermione."

The shopkeeper let out a garbled noise that sounded somewhat like, "Marius Callaghan."

"Callaghan? I recognize that name. Your father was one of the members of the Wizengamot who resigned his post when the Muggleborn Registration Commission was introduced, wasn't he?"

Marius Callaghan nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, Marius, your father was a brave man," said Hermione, reaching out carefully to pat him on the arm. A few strands of his hair rested on his sleeve just inches from her fingers. If she could just reach them...

"He collects Chocolate Frog Cards, and he has thirteen of yours so far!" said Marius, his eyes bulging. Hermione brushed her sleeve against the hair, capturing it in the folds of the fabric.

"That's—That's really... Well, thank you for your help!" she said, dropping the hairs into an empty vial and hurrying out to the sound of his confused thanks.

The potion bubbled and frothed when she poured a measure of it into a glass and added the hair. The bottle she had bought contained enough for five hours' worth of transformation, so she pocketed the remaining doses and enlisted Winky's help in entering the Chamber of Secrets once more.

She could not quite believe it had come to this.

Tom was waiting for her when she arrived, leaning against a pillar and toying with his shackles. It was unnerving the way he did not so much as flinch at the _crack_ of her Apparition, but remained still and silent, as though he could easily have waited her a few decades more. When Winky departed Hermione took a deep breath and, hoping vehemently that she would not live to regret it, pulled out the potion. This was really the sort of thing that was normally instigated by Harry. The utter blankness that entered Tom's face the moment he saw what was in her hand filled her with a nameless unease.

_It's not too late to back out..._

But it was. She had made him take a Vow, and she could see in his eyes that nothing in the world would stop him from claiming his reward.

"You look perfect, as always," he said, barely glancing at her as he took hold of the glass of potion. "I should have known you'd insist on the most tedious form of disguise possible."

"The most _thorough_ form of disguise," Hermione corrected. "But if you're not committed to this it's not too late to—"

He tossed back to Polyjuice without protest, giving no indication that he was deterred by what she knew to be the truly atrocious flavor. Before his features could begin to distort Hermione rapped him over the head with her wand, casting as strong a Disillusionment charm as she was capable of. She was not sure she wanted to see his face change: Tom was not meant to be anything less than what he was.

Satisfied that the spell would hide him sufficiently well, she stood back and said, "Now, when Winky comes back for me, remember, not a word. I'm not going to implicate her in this by asking her to break the rules. She can't know she's Apparating us both out."

"Understood," said Tom's voice with a hint of humor. She could no longer see his face but she could tell that his eyebrows would be tilted mockingly downward.

There was a loud _crack_ and Winky appeared directly to Hermione's right, while Tom stood to her left.

"Is Miss ready to be going?" asked Winky eagerly, looking around her with great suspicion.

"Yes, Winky, thank you so much," said Hermione, taking Tom's hand and sliding her sleeve down so that Winky would not see. "To the front doors this time, I think. I need to go out into the grounds."

With another _crack_ the Elf had transported them directly to the oak front doors of the castle. She gave an embarrassed squeak when Hermione knelt down to wring her hand, and firmly shouted down her offer of payment.

"Winky is honored to be helping, Miss!" Winky squeaked, hurrying away before Hermione could attempt to offer her any further remuneration. Fighting down the guilty churning of her stomach, Hermione smiled and turned to stride out onto the grounds.

"Are you going to remove the Disillusionment charm now?" Tom asked, falling into step beside her. He was only just visible from where she stood as a slight shimmer in the light of dusk, and to any observer in the castle would go entirely unnoticed.

"No," she said firmly. "Not until we're well away from the school. I don't want anyone seeing me wandering about the grounds with strangers."

"I never realized you were quite so experienced in the art of rule-breaking. Perhaps you ought to have been in Slytherin after all."

Hermione ignored him but kept a firm hold on his hand lest he should try to slip away somehow. Once outside the boundaries of the grounds she Apparated them to Hogsmead and let out a shaky breath. So far, so good. Night was falling and nearly all the shops were closed, guaranteeing that the real Marius Callaghan would no longer be on the high street and ensuring that Tom's disguise was safe. As she led him forward into the street she went over the terms of their agreement once more.

"Like we agreed, you have to stay with me at all times," she reminded him, barely moving her lips in case anyone should see her and think she was talking to herself.

"Of course."

"And you're not to purposely get us into a situation where I would be unable to keep an eye on you."

"Naturally."

"And you need to tell me exactly where it is we're going beforehand."

"Not quite yet."

Hermione was unexpectedly seized by arms she could not see as Tom dragged her into a side alley hidden from view of the main street. The brick wall was cold against her back as he trapped her against the building, unnervingly close despite his invisibility.

"What in Godric's name do you think you're—"

"You're much too tense to go on any kind of escapade," said Tom, grasping her waist. "You'll get yourself into a world of trouble in this state. We've got to do something about your nerves."

She heard him drop to his knees and gasped in surprise when she felt his mouth brush against her stomach, warm, harsh breath sending goose bumps flashing over her skin. Then he moved lower, tugging her skirt out of the way.

"What are you...?" Merlin, he had lost his mind! Hermione tapped him on the head with her wand, hoping to regain some semblance of control over the situation now that he was visible, but he ignored her.

"You're bloody amazing," he said, latching his mouth onto—

"Tom!" She bit her lip and threw her head back, banging it against the wall. She wanted to tear her hair out. "I really don't think—"

"Hermione," he said quietly, his lips brushing against her leg—_moremoremore_—and sending a shiver down her spine, "if you tell me what to do you'll invoke the Vow and I'll end up killing myself trying to make you—"

"—can't do this when you don't look like yourself—"

"—though I suppose that would make a good epitaph. Make sure they engrave it on my headstone: _Killed by Hermione Granger's beautiful—_"

"_That's enough!_"

At once he stood, grinning, and smoothed her skirt back in place. Then he folded his hands behind his back to indicate his compliance. As her breathing slowly returned to normal Hermione mustered the fiercest glare she could manage, which served only to make him chuckle.

"We're not making much progress," he remarked.

"I'm not tense," said Hermione through tightly gritted teeth. "Just tell me where we're going and that will be enough."

Tom waved carelessly, and at first she thought he was pointing at the wall. Then she looked down and saw the horizontal door lodged against the building a few feet further down. Her heart racing, she flicked her wand and the door flew open.

"I told you about the cellar of Gladrag's Wizardwear," Tom explained, holding the door wide for her.

"And the secret passageway leads to?"

"A place where no one will threaten or endanger you."

Gritting her teeth, Hermione proceeded down the stone steps into the pervading darkness of the cellar. When Tom had followed her and closed the door behind him she lit her wand, illuminating a packed earth floor covered in a thick layer of cobwebs through which the outline of a trap door was just visible.

"_Alohamora,_" Hermione breathed, and the lock clicked. "After you."

Flashing her his perfect smile, Tom lowered himself down into the passageway below, and caught Hermione when she jumped down in turn. Their extreme proximity was wreaking havoc on her concentration, so she began to feel her way along the wall.

"_Adducet conspectus_," said Tom calmly.

The moment he spoke the code word a hundred torches burst into life, mounted along the walls for miles ahead. Hermione gaped at him.

Tom shrugged. "An old haunt. It seems the old enchantments are still in place."

They walked along in silence for what felt like an interminable amount of time. Hermione wondered if Tom could feel the filaments of tensions slowly spreading between them, until she wanted nothing more than to push him against a wall and finish what they had started. But he said nothing, and so they continued until Hermione's feet ached and she began to wonder if he was merely leading her on a wild goose chase. Just when she was about to demand they turn around, they finally reached a steep upward slope that led them to a handsome rosewood door.

"How far have we traveled?" Hermione asked, feeling an inexplicable inclination to whisper.

"Over four hundred miles."

"_What?_"

"As I said, there are powerful enchantments on this corridor. We are now somewhere beneath London." He reached out, slowly, and brushed a spider from her hair. "It will be to your advantage to stay as calm as possible. If I'm correct, we're about to enter the headquarters of one of Wizarding Britain's most exclusive secret societies."

"And _why_ would we need to come here?"

"To ask the man in charge a question."

"Tom, I'm going to have an answer one way or another. Why are you making this so difficult?"

He gave her a level look. "The man behind that door possesses a particular set of skills and knowledge which it would be difficult to find anywhere else, even with the world so changed as it is. He was once known in some circles as the Viper. The Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Selwyns—all trod carefully in his presence. I think he is probably the only one who can tell me whether the pain will ever subside, or whether there is something I have yet to do. Some task to complete..."

Hermione's stomach twisted. "The pain from r—repairing your body after the horcruxes? You—it—it hasn't gone away?"

"It comes and goes. Mostly, nowadays, it goes. But sometimes in the night..."

Slightly mollified, Hermione raised her fist with some trepidation and knocked on the door. Precisely three seconds passed before it swung open, revealing a gaunt young man in a black hood whose face registered absolutely no emotion at the sight of them. In silence they were led through an antechamber through to a wide dungeon-like room packed with velvet draperies, chintz armchairs, and glassy-eyed wizards surrounded by clouds of acrid smoke.

"What are we meant to do?" Hermione whispered, but Tom shook his head a fraction of an inch to each side, indicating to her that it was best to remain silent.

Almost at once another group of cloaked servants emerged from a second antechamber, dragging along a young man with a bruised and bloodied face and ripped dragonskin clothes. The man was shoved and kicked over to the center, where a stooped figure sat alone on the grandest of the chintz armchairs. One of his eyes was so badly injured it was swollen shut. Her heart pounding in horror, Hermione reached for her wand, but Tom's hand closed like a vice around her arm. His eyes bored into hers; he seemed to be trying to convey something. At last Hermione understood: he was inviting her into his head, attempting silent communication.

She had not gotten much occasion to practice her Legilimency skills in the months since she had returned to the present, but with Tom projecting his memories out at her it was not difficult to catch on to something.

_A Wizengamot trial he had attended in disguise, an age ago. A man in shackles, being led away by Dementors after his sentencing...A room full of students sitting in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, writing their OWL papers..._

The message was clear: The man was guilty; this was a test.

Stifling all her basic instincts, Hermione released her wand and balled her fists at her sides.

"So," rasped a voice from beneath the hood of the stooped man, whose back was still to his servants, "you have brought me something."

The servants did not answer. They seemed to know that speech was not required of them.

The stooped man drew a deep, ratting breath. "Torrence Scabior. You are here because you stand accused of crimes against several upstanding members of wizarding society."

_Scabior?_ Hermione's eyes widened in recognition and the bruised man spat on the floor, cursing.

"Filthy squibs, got what was coming to 'em," he snarled, struggling to get to his feet and falling back against the floor.

"Such crimes," the stooped man went on as though there had been no interruption, "including the maiming, torture, and public humiliation of said members of society. Do you admit to these crimes?"

Scabior gurgled an unintelligible response, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

"The Ministry has not seen fit to prioritize these crimes against the many other petty offense committed in the wake of the war. I am not so lenient. Nor, however, am I an ungenerous man. So my gift to you, Scabior, will be one chance."

"You're mad, the whole lot 'o you," Scabior babbled. "The Dark Lord'll rise again, like 'e always does, you'll see, and then you'll all be no more'n dead!"

The stooped man turned slowly to face Scabior, revealing his hard, lined face and grizzled hair, but Hermione could have sworn that he glanced briefly in Tom's direction.

"Somehow, I suspect that were the Dark Lord here, he would not share your opinion. One chance," he repeated, "to kill me. If you accept this chance, Scabior, I must warn you that you had best not miss. Because once you miss, I will kill you. It will not be a quick or a painless death."

Scabior was heaved to his feet. Hermione had no desire to watch what was about to happen, but if she was ever to unravel the many mysteries that had entangled themselves inextricably with her life, she could not afford to be squeamish. She held her breath as Scabior swayed on the spot, his one good eye darting to and fro as though looking for a means of escape that would not come. Then he leapt forward in a surprise attempt to rush the stooped man, but overshot and ended up stumbling against the leg of his armchair. More quickly than Hermione would have believed possible, the stooped man held out his arm, and from beneath his sleeve darted a thin, jade green snake which sank its fangs into Scabior's arm. Within moments Scabior's face had gone bright red as he struggled for breath and fell to the floor, thrashing. Hermione averted her eyes, but she could still hear him.

"That's—that's enough!" she cried, ignoring Tom's warning glare. "You can't—someone get him an antidote! You can't just let him..."

The stooped man turned his gaze slowly on Hermione, fixing her with cold yellow eyes like a cat's.

"Will you take responsibility for him if he lives?" he asked. "Will you detain him, heal him, ensure that he is tried for his actions?"

"Yes," said Hermione defiantly.

"Then you possess a more generous soul than I." He clapped his hands and the servants dragged away a now unconscious Scabior. "You bring curious company into my lair, Riddle."

Incredibly, Tom smiled and took a seat at the man's side, looking unsurprised. "My efforts at subterfuge are wasted on you, Viper. I should have known as much."

The man waved an airy hand in Hermione's direction. "You cannot arrive here with Hermione Granger after her well-publicized venture into your past and expect me not to put the pieces together. The wind has been blowing curious rumors my way since the winter months, whispers of your return. And whatever my other deficiencies, I can recognize the traces of magic when I see them. Polyjuice potion is rather tedious, don't you think?"

"I said as much," Tom agreed.

"What—But—We have to go!" Hermione exclaimed. "No one was supposed to recognize you. This is a... we have to obliviate them all!"

"There won't be any need for that," said the Viper, pointedly pulling out a chair for her. The diamond-encrusted holster of his wand glinted on his belt. He gestured around at the assembled guests, none of whom had so much as looked around at the murder of Scabior. "They are much too far gone to take notice of Mr Riddle. The Viper's blend provides a trance that can last hours, even days. They will not surface this night. Would you care for a taste? Peruvian firewhiskey, Billywig blood, and a trace of purified viper's poison." He held up a minuscule crystal vial filled with swirling amber liquid.

"No, thank you," said Hermione stiffly. "I—"

Hermione broke off and stared at him, her brain whirring at top speed until her head was almost painfully full. She thought of the way the Viper had accused Scabior of crimes against squibs, and the way he had killed him without using magic. The truth hit her with a shock like lightning.

"You're a squib," she said in a rush.

At last the Viper's face broke into a grim smile. "I see your reputation does you no justice, Miss Granger. Cleverness of your caliber is a dangerous asset, you know."

"But, your wand..." Hermione gestured at the wand holstered at his belt

The Viper gave a curious little shrug. "An old affectation. I may not have the ability to wield it, but no law can deny me my right to hold one. Sit, Miss Granger, I grow weary of craning my neck to look up at you."

Hermione sat, glancing at Tom, who gazed benignly back at her.

"You seem to command quite a bit of power for, er, someone of your means," said Hermione cautiously. "But I've never read about you anywhere."

"Nor will you," said the Viper. "I have invested a great deal of time and energy into amassing the power and influence I have, and I am not about to allow the Ministry to begin poking its nose in. They have been on my trail for decades, and have been bumping up against nothing but shadows. Your face is changing," he added abruptly, looking to Tom, who was indeed regaining his regular appearance.

Hermione turned briefly in the direction of a nearby guest and clapped her hands an inch from their face, eliciting no reaction whatsoever. Judging the situation relatively safe, she sat back and watched Tom return to himself. It was like watching her own heart and lungs and chest placed back within her body after having had them unceremoniously torn out.

"Hellfire, you haven't aged a day." The Viper's eyes had narrowed to slits. "So is this what your horcruxes bought you? A handsome face that lasts half a century? You may be the cleverest fool I've ever met."

"I tolerate your brashness because you are useful to me," Tom returned pleasantly, "but the day may come when your uses run out. Try to remember that."

"When that day comes you shall find me on your doorstep, noose in hand."

"This is all very enlightening," Hermione interrupted, "but I'd like to know what you mean about rumors and whispers reaching your ears of the Dark Lord's return."

"Did you really think you could resurrect He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and arouse no suspicion? The Ministry has never even approached anything resembling competence, especially in the realm of cover-ups. One day, perhaps in a year, perhaps in ten, they will come for the Dark Lord."

"Voldemort is dead."

"And yet here he sits."

Hermione did her best to match the Viper's steely gaze. "No. Perhaps you haven't been keeping up. This is Tom Riddle. And if he's in danger we would appreciate it if you would tell us." The Viper remained stoic, and Hermione shrugged. "I'll find out either way, you can count on it. But if you can't help us with that, then maybe you can reveal another one of your uses. Tom seems to think you'll know something about a cure for the pain that comes with repairing a fractured soul."

The Viper glanced between Tom and Hermione, something like an amused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"I can't decide which of the two of you has the other more thoroughly fooled," he said gruffly. "Well, it's no damned concern of mine. So you want a quick solution to a little pain? That's why you came all this way?"

Tom jerked his head in a rapid movement that might have meant any number of things. The Viper leaned forward, resting his chin against his steepled fingers.

"Then my advice to you," he said in a low voice, "is to evaluate the cost of redemption. Only sacrifice pays for peace."

Tom's face went utterly blank, and so Hermione knew that he had stumbled onto something valuable.

"And where do you suppose one might begin this search of cost and sacrifice?" Tom asked. There was a wild happiness thrumming through the air around him that Hermione had felt only a few times before.

The Viper jutted out his jaw and looked, for the first time, surprised. "You might like to start with the most influential case of soul encapsulation in Wizarding history, Riddle."

Tom was no longer bothering to hide his impatience. His words seemed to crack like whips as he said in a harsh commandment, "Explain."

The Viper paused for effect. Hermione was certain that he was counting the seconds in his head.

"Surely you know," he said at last, "that the Hogwarts Sorting Hat is a horcrux?"

* * *

"But how can it be possible?" Hermione repeated a little over half an hour, speeding back down the torchlit corridor. "If it was true _someone_ would have discovered it by now."

"People are far less intelligent than you give them credit for," Tom replied, striding along beside her with his eyes fixed straight ahead and his skin glowing eerily in the gloom.

"But then Godric Gryffindor could never have _died!_" Hermione insisted. "If he'd made a horcrux he'd still be out there somewhere!"

"Who's to say he isn't? The legends surrounding the founders have often been garbled, exaggerated, even made up or simply lost."

They had reached the cellar of Gladrag's Wizardwear once more. As Tom lifted her up through the trap door Hermione said, "I still think the Viper was just trying to get a rise out of you. His mystique is his bread and butter, you probably can't trust half of what he tells you. He's a dangerous sort of friend to have: it doesn't seem like you can tell what his intentions are."

"No other object has ever been known to remain animated by an enchantment for over a thousand years," said Tom, clambering up after her. "And the Viper is not my friend. I have no need of friends. He is a man who understand the workings of a mutually beneficial partnership."

"Then you might have just..." She shuffled uncomfortably. "I'm just surprised—_pleased_, but surprised—that you didn't just try to force the truth out of him."

Tom looked at her evenly. "I once saw the Viper hold up against torture for five full days and nights. He ingests antidotes to most known potions and poison each morning as a matter of course. He has no attachments, nothing with which to threaten him. There is no coercing the man."

Hermione looked at her feet. When Tom made to walk out into the street she called, "Wait! You need another dose of Polyjuice. You can't go out there looking like yourself."

"Of course," he said tonelessly, accepting the vial she pulled from her pocket. The potion spat and hissed when she added the hair, and she wrinkled her nose. Tom downed the liquid in one.

Then, to Hemrione's horror, he turned into Rickard Burbage before her eyes.

"I'm glad my true appearance appeals to you better," said Tom, observing her look of utter dismay.

"No! Merlin's bloomers, I can't believe this! I can't believe I did it _again!_" Gesticulating wildly, she pulled out her wand and conjured a mirror so that he might see himself. "I got the wrong hairs from my sleeve and now you're a student! This is the most horrid—the most _irresponsible_ thing I've ever done..."

"You've done this before?" Tom asked, a peculiar look on his face that might almost have been affectionate.

"In second year I turned myself into a cat, and now this!"

He reached out and brushed his—Rickard's—thumb against her chin, smiling. "Hermione, love, you can see I'm not a cat _now_. In an hour I'll be myself again and you'll be sleeping in the castle. As endearing as I find your hysterics, we had really best be getting back."

Without leaving her time to protest he exited the cellar and set off across the Hogsmead high street, with Hermione following behind him uttering increasingly frantic protests.

"No, this is unacceptable, I really don't—"

But she froze and felt all the blood drain from her face when she saw who was standing at the end of the street.

"Miss Granger?" said Professor McGonagall. "Mr Burbage? What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"


	19. Chapter 18

**A/N:** You guys wanted more Tom's POV, you've got it! Honestly, I don't know how many more of these I'll do because it's exhausting, but I think it was important to show how much Tom and Hermione are both unraveling. Sorry it took a while to get it posted, I was superbusy, but every time Provocative Envy posts a new chapter of Nightmare I get really inspired to write some more (if you're not reading that fic, incidentally, you should be). After this chapter shit is going to get real. It is going to take a dark turn, I tell you, so pour a little firewhiskey into your morning cereal, folks. Thanks muchly to everyone who reviewed: **CheshireCat23, kiera-sama, Aristocratic Assassin, TheLightningScar, Shanna, LCB, Atlantean Diva...** If you people were tumblr accounts I'd follow forever you all. Cheers!

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Riddle turned around slowly, taking a few moments to contemplate possible courses of action at his leisure. He had heard of Minerva McGonagall, caught glimpses of her in the Weasley girl's thoughts. A formidable witch. Bit of a stick up her arse.

_Too long starved for company_, Riddle mused. _My thoughts are beginning to run away with themselves._

"What is the meaning of this?" the Headmistress repeated, her lips impossibly thin with righteous indignation.

He ought to look worried. He was not in his own body.

"Well you see, Professor, I received a communication via Patronus about an hour ago, from Harry, asking me to meet him here in Hogsmead," said Hermione, passably convincing. The only thing giving her away was her voice, slightly higher pitched than usual. Riddle stood back to let her have a go at extricating them from the situation, rearranging his expression into one of careful contrition.

"Indeed," said McGonagall distractedly. Not a hint of mistrust. "And you spoke to him? What was the matter?"

Hermione shuffled her feet for a moment.

"Er, it was Ministry business, Professor," she muttered, looking duly embarrassed. "Not that you can't be trusted, of course, it's just that we haven't actually been cleared to discuss..."

Riddle had never really appreciated what a cool liar Hermione was. Perhaps because it had taken so long after they had first met for him to become aware of the _magnitude_ of the secrets she carried. To be thrown fifty years into the past and to keep one's head... At present, of course, McGonagall would be predisposed to believe her because lies were not normally passed off as embarrassing, reluctant half-truths.

McGonagall's eyes widened and she nodded solemnly. "I see. Well, then. And Mr Burbage—?"

Hermione darted a quick look at him, but he remained mute.

_Work it out, sweetheart._

"Well as I'm sure you heard, Professor, I was just asking him to stop and explain himself when you arrived to, er—"

"I do have social engagements of my own, Miss Granger."

"I—Yes, of course! And, well, I was just about to ask Rickard what he was doing."

"It—It was a bet," said Riddle, shamefaced. "Just some of the boys said... couldn't come back with a bag of Honeydukes... stupid."

Jumbled words. Flustered. Uncertain. So easy it was almost boring. Students were such imbeciles; he doubted that would have changed no matter the era. It would pass.

"I don't know if you've been made aware, Professor, but Rickard's aunt passed away recently," Hermione supplied helpfully. She lowered her voice and added, "Just a year after... you know..."

McGonagall's expression softened almost imperceptibly, and she _sniffed_.

Sentimental fools all.

At Wool's, an aeon ago, some of the older children had taken it upon themselves to educate him in the finer points of the orphanage's social hierarchy. Children of wealthy, respectable citizens were the higher-ups. Street urchins and castoffs like himself, unsurprisingly, were at the very bottom, somewhere beneath the rats and cockroaches.

They had beaten him senseless, kicking and scratching and spitting. They had called him a hundred things he could not understand and threatened to set fire to his cot at night. Blood and bile and screams and sweat and dust. Broken nose, wrist, collarbone. Three broken ribs.

Pain was nothing.

All this had been when he was only four or five years old, before he could do much more with his power than surreptitiously light candles when he was upset.

He had grown older, stronger.

Those older children had never understood. They had thought that he was paying them back for the blood and screams, because they were worthless—they saw aggression in black and white while he perceived all the useful nuances of fear. He did not care one iota about the beating. He cared that they knew who was in power.

Twelve broken fingers, set and cast and broken again. To them, pain was not nothing.

"Be that as it may," said McGonagall, interrupting his reminiscence, "this behaviour is entirely unacceptable. We will not speak of expulsion today. However I believe a week long detention is in order. In addition, I shall be writing to your father—"

"I can take care of that," Hermione interjected a little too quickly. "You must have so much on your hands already—I mean, since we've already discussed my taking over Hagrid's duties as interim Head of Gryffindor, Professor, I'd be glad to pull my weight, you know."

The Headmistress looked at Riddle—Burbage—through a haze of pity. He remembered that look, too. He had spent much of his young life expanding considerable effort to wipe it from the faces of all those who looked at him.

"Very well. Yes, thank you for the offer, Miss Granger. I shall meet the both of you in my office in thirty minutes' time. This matter must still be discussed with Professor Flitwick, as he is head of Burbage's house."

"Absolutely." Hermione nodded.

McGonagall left, tartan cloak swishing behind her. So this had been Dumbledore's supposed great lieutenant, his staunchest supporter? Stunning inadequacy, even for the old man.

"Drink," said Hermione in her most rigid voice the moment the Headmistress was out of sight, thrusting the remaining Polyjuice at him.

_YOU DO NOT ORDER ME_, his mind bellowed, white hot rage surfacing in an instant. He schooled his face so that it did not betray an ounce of his anger. It was Hermione, _Hermione_. All-important, infuriating, unaware of her trespasses Hermione. His hands twitched against his shackles, but now was not yet the time for that.

The Vow. The Unbreakable Vow. He must remember that.

She did order him, Riddle reflected, vastly less amused than before. But only because he allowed her to think her orders were of her own making.

And then, unbidden: _That is not the way to carry on; that is the way of things before the Horcruxes were removed._

Riddle drank, and he walked with Hermione in silence all the way to the Head's office, thinking all the while at the look on Dumbledore's face if he could tell his thoughts at this moment. If he could know that Riddle was calling up that amulet of fools, _For the Greater Good_.

It made a twisted form of sense, though admittedly, he recognized, not a kind that Hermione would accept. But Hermione was too valuable for him to allow her morals to infringe on her preservation.

And then, speak of the Devil, they entered McGonagall's empty office and there hung the portrait of Dumbledore directly behind the Head's desk. Alone of all his compatriots, the old fool was not slumbering but looking about him alertly, as though awaiting their very arrival.

"Why, hello Tom!" said Dumbledore's portrait brightly when Riddle and Hermione took a seat by the desk.

Hermione jumped.

"What—But—Professor Dumbledore, this is Rickard Burbage."

"Admirable effort, Hermione," said Dumbledore cheerfully, "but you and I both know this boy is no more Rickard Burbage than the chair he sits on. I am afraid the look on your face quite gives you away."

Always with the theatrics. Did he never grow tired, even in death, of impressing so relentlessly on all those around him the extent of his good-natured cleverness?

"Professor," said Riddle, nodding politely. He threw his shackles back and laced his hands behind his head. Dumbledore's gaze darted to the gold restraints around his wrists.

"That, Tom," he said lightly, though his eyes flashed, "is not going to work."

Riddle's heart stopped. Impossible. There would be _hell _to pay if someone found out.

_Slash the portrait burn it hope the old man feels agony in his grave—_

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked sharply.

McGonagall entered the room with some senile, tottering old man named Flitwick, ending the conversation prematurely.

_Impossible._

Much discussion was devoted to the matter of the severity of Burbage's punishment, which interested Riddle less than not at all. Hermione fidgeted. His shackles fell cold and heavy against his arms. Seconds trickled into minutes and the end of the potion's effects drew near. He could, perhaps, perform some sort of transfiguration on himself to extend its effects, but then Hermione would know. On the other hand, if he was not let go soon, Hermione would certainly be jailed for helping him to escape his confinement.

Dumbledore watched them benignly from behind his half-moon spectacles, speaking not a word.

_Impossible._

Then the crucial part. At the first opportunity Hermione said, "I'll escort Rickard back to his dormitory, Professor Flitwick. All those stairs..." It was at least a pleasant change of pace to collude with someone who, unlike Avery or Lestrange or any of the others, possessed an intellectual quotient higher than that of a tree frog.

Flitwick looked nothing but happy for the offer. The security at this school nowadays was well and truly a cause for hilarity.

Riddle thought he might have some chance to speak to Hermione before she returned him to the Chamber. Some chance to draw levity from these events, because really, she took matters far too much to heart. But she silenced him at once.

"Don't talk," she said in such a flat, toneless voice that he felt a flicker of alarm. "I'm telling you not to say a word. I'm invoking the Vow."

Something had shaken her up badly. Knowing Hermione, it would be the involvement of the Burbage boy's identity or some such rubbish. As if that was of any importance. She left him in the Chamber without a backwards glance. _That_ was worrying.

_That, Tom, is not going to work._

_Impossible._

_Hell to pay._

He counted twenty-eight minutes of restless contemplation before the Viper appeared in the middle of the Chamber, windswept and clutching an old teapot.

"Quick work," Riddle observed. Not admiration but a statement of fact. The Viper had always been efficient—one of the main reasons Riddle allowed him to live.

"A fairly uncomplicated procedure."

"The shackles, I presume?"

The Viper nodded curtly. "I have only seen one pair like them before, in a German fortress. You will guess who invented them..."

"Rather more than a guess I'd say." Riddle clenched his jaw. "Albus Dumbledore."

"The one and only," the Viper confirmed. "I had the event on record, which allowed me to review its particulars the moment you left. Those shackles were designed for highly dangerous prisoners granted conditional release. A trace has been placed upon them, something like the one the Ministry uses to prohibit underage magic. However this trace activates a tracking device in the event of a death in your vicinity, rather than underage spells. The Ministry likely controls the tracking device."

The Viper had his sly manner, like all men. He liked to draw out an audience, prolong the suspense. Still, Riddle's patience was wearing thin on this of all nights.

"But naturally," Riddle said, "you had an inkling of all this the moment I arrived, and so you only _appeared_ to kill Scabior _in my vicinity_."

"Naturally."

"_And?_"

The Viper took a seat on the edge of a stone serpent wound around a column and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"And so I employed my considerable web of contacts to discover that, unsurprisingly, the order for those shackles was placed by Harry James Potter of the Auror Office."

Potter was an upjumped moron with impeccable luck, that was a given. He was hardly a concern.

"How did you _find_ me?" Riddle asked, detaching each syllable to signal his discontent.

The Viper raised an eyebrow. "With all her attention so intently focused upon you, I would have thought it was obvious. I had my associates track the girl, and waited until she led you here. Then it was only the simple matter of securing a Portkey—"

The old man did not have the opportunity to complete his sentence, because Tom had shoved him against the column and pressed an arm against his throat.

"You do not involve her," he shouted, an inch from the Viper's face.

_Keep pressing down until he can't breathe—_

It was a moment before he realized he had spoken Parseltongue. The Viper seemed to gather his meaning anyway.

"You involved her by bringing her to see me, Riddle," he choked out. "For that matter, you involved her the moment you met her, the moment you drew her into your web."

"If you favor a beating heart I suggest you stop talking this very moment."

_I don't think you can do it,_ Hermione's voice spoke up in his head, shocking him so badly that he dropped the old man and stepped back. It sounded exactly the way she had when she had first spoken those words to him, when he had threatened Potter's life.

The Viper was looking at him shrewdly, with something almost like distaste.

"And it would appear she has reeled you into _her_ web as well," he observed. "I do not recall hesitation being a part of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's arsenal."

Riddle's nostrils flared. "I am not that man."

The Viper scoffed. "I am surprised that line works with Hermione Granger, so you should maintain no illusion that I will fall for it."

"I am mortal. My soul is whole."

"And yet you seem bent on tearing it apart once more."

_That, Tom, is not going to work. _

_I don't think you can do it._

"If that is what you think," said Riddle, "then you know what I need from you next."

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I hope Hogwarts is treating you well. It's good to hear from you. I was starting to think you'd lost my address. And thank you for the Easter chocolates. Mrs Weasley keeps insisting I look too thin._

_I got an owl from McGonagall yesterday, before yours reached me, asking if I'd met you in Hogsmead just like you said she might. Don't worry, I told her I had. Lying to the Headmistress, though, Hermione! And you used to be a Prefect... But really, I don't see anything wrong with covering for Burbage, after everything he's gone through. In fact, since you mentioned being concerned for him, I had a colleague pull his OWL results. And I found out he's aiming to be an Auror, so I spoke to Robards and put in a recommendation (his grades put mine to shame)._

_Do you know, I've never heard anything, anywhere, about the enchantment that created the Sorting Hat. If you could tell me a bit more about why you're researching it, maybe I could have a word with Kingsley and ask for his help. If it's important, we could get some Aurors down to Hogwarts._

_I'm not going to put in writing the thing that really needs discussing, obviously, in case this falls into the wrong hands somehow. I'll tell you more about it when I see you next. But the Ministry has been progressing further and further towards contemplating a conditional release. Technically speaking he hasn't actually committed any crime, and that alone makes holding him a legal minefield. But more than that, we can hardly claim he's been proven to have any intention to harm anyone in the future. It's mad, basically. It doesn't make any sense. _

_Meet me in Hogsmead for real, this time, and we'll discuss it._

_Ron talks about you sometimes. Couldn't you...?_

_All the best,_

_Harry_

* * *

Riddle expected to have to put considerable effort into convincing Hermione to "let" him out of the Chamber again. He thought, at least, there would be need of wheedling and insisting. What he had not expected was to see her again within a week of the incident with McGonagall, and to hear her say, "Before you ask, yes, I'll take you outside again."

"That isn't what I was going to ask."

"Well, I will."

"When?"

"When I decide to."

When he inquired as to what had brought about this change in attitude, she merely said, "I got a letter," and left it at that.

Days passed. The Viper appeared and disappeared. Emptiness and silence crowded in from all sides, a maddening torture worse than anything Esher could dole out. But torture was nothing. He waited, thinking of the Viper and the Sorting Hat, of shackles and Hermione. Hermione.

She vanished for long periods of time. He wondered if she was punishing him somehow.

She appeared, and they made frantic love against a stone pillar. She left.

She appeared, and they pored over ancient, useless books about the Founders and the legends surrounding them. She left.

"If we don't find anything soon I'm going to visit the Viper myself," she said the next time she appeared.

_Keep pressing down until he can't breathe—_

"Absolutely not," Riddle replied. She was mad, _mad_. It was out of the question.

"I wasn't asking. You don't have any say in what I do, Tom." Gently, almost, as though reminding him once again in a pained voice that he had the audacity to have been Lord Voldemort in another life. A life he had never lived.

"And how the hell do you work out that crooked system?" he asked, seething.

"Excuse me?"

"You dictate what I do every moment of the day. You, the Ministry, Harry Potter—"

"Don't bring Harry into this—"

"You keep me locked up for crimes I _might_ commit, and now you condemn me for trying to keep you safe—"

"I can take care of myself—"

"No, you can't."

Her eyebrows flew up. She looked ravishing when she was furious, but at the moment that was the furthest thing from Riddle's mind. It was important that Hermione begin to understand the world was not as changeable as she believed.

"I kept myself alive for a year when you were trying to kill me and everyone I knew," she snapped, and a moment later her jaw clenched as she realized what she'd said.

"Did I do all that?" said Riddle caustically. "I've been quite busy..."

"Let's leave," she said abruptly.

"What?"

"You need to learn that just because you're cleverer than everyone, doesn't mean you know what's best," Hermione replied. "_Winky!_"

Bloody hell, she was serious. She was slipping, losing hold of that indefatigable stability that allowed her to remain cool under pressure. And that was good, because it would be easier to show her all that he had to show her eventually this way. But...

She was less herself this way. It made his blood feel leaden and his senses skitter and prickle. His entire being, his entire _existence_ had been rebuilt upon the memory of her. She was essential, irreplaceable.

The Elf appeared, and Riddle wondered who he was to be Polyjuiced into this time. But she merely Disillusioned him and whispered a destination in the Elf's ear. They Disapparated and materialized in what looked to be an abandoned Muggle warehouse.

"What—" He did not even know where to begin.

"We're just a few miles outside of Guilford, near Clandon Park. There are no Muggle dwellings for ages in any direction, I checked. Winky, would you come back for us in twenty minutes? Tom, I'll remind you that if you do anything to break the Vow you'll die, and I will never forgive you."

The Elf vanished, and Riddle took in the motes of dusty moonlight filtering through the dilapidated ceiling. The concrete floor was cracked and coated in grime. Hermione was staring at him, her expression unreadable.

At length she said, "This used to be a cemetery, a long time ago. Small plots, meant for people who didn't have family to bury them anywhere else. Then a rich contractor made an offer on the land and the government caved. They started to build airplane and rocket parts here—did you know the Muggles sent someone to walk on the moon?"

Guilford... That was not too far from London. A cemetery. She had brought him to a cemetery.

_Impossible._

"Do you know why I've brought you here?" she asked.

"I don't think," he told her in a low voice, every muscle straining to hold in the magic that was burning to get out of him, to lay waste to this whole place, this whole _country_, "that you realize how patient I've been with you."

Hermione's voice rose in indignation. "How patient _you've_ been with _me?_"

"Yes," Riddle bit out. "Precisely."

They stared at one another, blood rushing, hearts pumping.

"Your mother was buried here, Tom. I tracked her down. They sent her body here after she gave birth to you. And they took her in and gave her a proper burial, these Muggles."

_Impossible._

"It took a lot for me to find her. I didn't know if I'd be able to. But I knew where Voldemort's body was buried, you see. So I was able to track Merope down through Muggle means; genetics. _Muggle science_ made it possible. Look outside, Tom."

_Impossible._

Riddle looked through a shattered window and glimpsed a monumental headstone carved in the shape of a weeping angel, standing at the crest of a hill.

"Harry paid for that," Hermione said. Her words were dismembering him, shattering his control, bringing a hundred dreadful curses rushing to the tip of his tongue. "He met your mother once in a Pensive. He felt very badly for her, so he arranged to have her commemorated. The statue is enchanted: it will stop anyone who tries to disturb the graves in this area."

"NOT—ANOTHER—FUCKING—WORD!"

The scream was ripped from Riddle before he could help it. He had never been so close to losing all semblance of control and simply killing her, pulverising her into nothingness, and how _dare_ she have that kind of effect on him? Hermione's face remained, calm, impassible, and that was what clinched it.

Magic erupted out of him in a mighty surge, illuminating the warehouse with blinding orange light as the rafters caught fire and the concrete floor cracked and split apart, and Hermione's jaw was opened wide in horror because now she knew that he'd had this power all along, that the shackles were _nothing_, but he did not care, _he could not stop_—

"What the hell is going on in here?"

A middle-aged Muggle man with camping gear strapped to his back had _run into the warehouse_, eyes wild with panic, and was looking between Riddle and Hermione as though they were three-headed beasts. And Hermione was screaming, screaming, and then there was a tremendous crash like thunder amplified against a mountainside, and the Muggle man fell to the ground, unmoving in a pool of blood.

_Impossible._


	20. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Very thankful to all who reviewed, **TheLightningScar, Kichigai17, LCB, IDanceToForget, maximumtrouble10, CheshireCat23, kiera-sama...** So as some of you may know, Aleister Crowley was a real (and very scary) dude. JKR sometimes used historical names like Nicholas Flamel in the books and I thought it would be fun to do the same here. You'll see...

A quick note on characterization: I've received some concern in the reviews about where this is all going given how cold and distant Hermione seems to be towards Tom at times. I see where you're coming from and I want to address it. Hermione is still definitely in love with Tom. His imprisonment is not her doing. I am a strong believer in the "show don't tell" school of writing. The very fact that Hermione has been going against the ministry and her better judgment to visit/jailbreak Tom proves the strength of her attachment. However as a result several people have been put in danger and this isn't something Hermione can easily forgive herself or Tom for. What I'm trying to do is set up a situation where this pairing can be together without either of them compromising who they are at their core (though Tom's genocidal tendencies may, admittedly, need to be kept to a minimum). It will take a lot of strife to maneuver them into that position, but what's a love story without adversity? I know it may be frustrating at times but if you stick with me I promise that there is a plan that will pay off in the end.

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

A crackling, blazing inferno was threatening to bring down the warehouse, and Hermione could feel waves of panic lapping at her insides, waiting to engulf her until she could do nothing but scream and run and fall into blackness. There was a man dead on the floor with blood spurting from his shoulder, and Tom was staring at the man as if he could not comprehend what he was seeing, and Tom had lied, he had _lied_—

"Stop it!" Hermione cried, taking a step towards him.

She had been through worse than this, much worse. She had helped bring down a Basilisk, fought Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, broken into Gringotts, dueled Bellatrix Lestrange. She clamped down ferociously on her panic, denying it access to her mind. There was an easier way to clear her head, and Hermione took it: she seized upon her anger instead.

Tom had lied.

He had been manipulating her all along. He'd had magic, he'd had a plan. Of course he had, because he was _Tom Riddle_, and she had been foolish to forget it even for a moment. Tom Riddle did nothing by accident.

How would he proceed now, she wondered? He would remain as cool as ever, as emotionless, and he would command the situation. Two could play at that game.

Hermione placed a hand on Tom's shoulder—his skin burning hot, scorching—and spun him around to face her, drawing herself up to full height and pouring all her remaining force of will into her glare.

"_Enough!_" she bellowed, slapping him across the face with all her might. "Snap out of it!"

For a moment Tom's eyes registered nothing; he did not even seem to recognize her, did not seem to know that she was there or that anything at all existed besides his own rage. Hermione suddenly felt a haze of unbearable warmth encapsulate her like a cocoon of molten lead, clouding her vision and causing her heartbeat to spike. It was too warm, and surely the hairs on the back of her neck were going singe, and surely her heart would collapse from the strain. She was about to go up in spontaneous combustion...

Then that terrible absence in Tom's eyes broke and the heat vanished. Hermione was cool and breathless again, and Tom's face very briefly registered shock and unadulterated horror before it became unfathomable. He fell to his knees, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his neck and shoulders taut as he bowed his head before her in contrition. She could not reconcile—he had just killed a man in a blind rage and she wanted to place a cool, comforting hand on his forehead.

Hermione slapped him again, as hard as she could. He did not move, did not speak.

"I enjoy a lovers' spat as much as the next man," a gruff voice echoed through the ruins of the warehouse. "But perhaps this one could be postponed until matters are somewhat more under control?"

Hermione and Tom's heads snapped back to see the Viper stride into their midst, a Muggle gun clutched in his right hand. He stepped over the Muggle man's body as though it was nothing, just a pile of debris, and came to a stop in front of Tom.

"You picked a hell of a time to showcase your temper, Riddle," he said.

"Oh my God." Hermione stood on shaky legs and pointed at the Viper, the analytical portion of her brain already catching up. This was why the Unbreakable Vow had not been triggered—_Thank God, thank God, thank God_. "_You_ killed him. You shot him!"

"What does that matter," said Tom quietly. "You seemed eager enough to believe it was my doing. Perhaps you'd be happier if you reverted to that theory."

"He is not dead," the Viper interrupted. "Though he will be soon, which is why I recommend you leave this place at once."

"No!" Hermione fell to the floor next to the Muggle man and began to wave her wand over his shoulder, muttering healing spells under her breath. The bullet had gone clean through, and she made quick work of mending the gaping, ugly wound in his skin. Tom remained silent, but the Viper sighed impatiently.

"He'll be fine," Hermione repeated again and again. She pressed her fingers to the man's wrist and felt a weak pulse, to her immense relief. "He'll be all right."

"The bullet was coated with an undetectable poison, girl," the Viper said coldly. "He will be dead in another minute. There is nothing you can do for him. If you wish to avoid seeing the inside of an Azkaban cell, you will go. The Ministry will not suspect wizard involvement if there is a bullet wound."

"Why did you shoot him?" Hermione snarled, rounding on the old man.

"So that Riddle here would not kill him first."

"But he's still going to die! Do you even know what his name was, if he had a family? This is a person, just like you and I! Just because he's a Muggle... You fight for Squibs' rights, I would have thought you'd understand!"

"It is not a question of the man's value but of preserving yours." The Viper looked over at Tom, who had still not risen. "Has Riddle not explained to you what will happen if someone should die in proximity to those shackles?"

At last Tom stood and towered over the Viper. Blankness. A terrible cold statue.

The Viper shrugged. "I have bought you a minute or two. Use them wisely. I do not intend to be here when the cavalry arrives."

He turned to leave, then paused and stooped before the Muggle man. He pulled a wallet from the pocket of the man's trousers, flipped through it briefly, and set it down.

"His name was David," he told Hermione. "He had a wife and son. Arrange a funeral if it puts you at ease."

The Viper left while Hermione was still gaping in silent outrage. At last she let out a shuddering breath and turned to Tom. She could see the faint outline of her palm shining red on his face where she had slapped him.

"Tom—"

"Someone's coming," he murmured.

Hermione held her breath and listened. Sure enough, the sound of soft footfalls reached her ears, and she knew that she must take Tom's hand and Disapparate at once to avoid being found out. But she could not just leave the Muggle man there, dead or not. He had lost his life because of her carelessness, her rash actions, and she simply _couldn't_ leave him.

A figure appeared silhouetted against the doorway, features momentarily invisible in the glare of the light from outside. Hermione caught her breath...

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing?" Harry roared.

Hermione's heart fell through her stomach, down beneath her feet, sinking far below into the ground.

"Timely," Tom commented, nodding.

Harry's eyes fell to the Muggle man and he flashed a glance at Hermione, thunderous.

"Harry! I—What—"

"Did he kill him?" he asked, nodding at Tom. "Yes or no? _Now!_"

"N—No."

"Hermione, if you lie to me I swear..."

"No, Harry, it was a bullet. Look there, the blood, the scar."

Harry peered at the man's shoulder and gave a frightening, jerky nod of the head before waving his wand to turn him—David, his name was David—onto his back and close his eyes.

"Riddle, if you're intending to try and take us both on without a wand, now would be the time," said Harry, still not looking at Tom. Hermione could not meet his gaze. She felt certain that she would collapse into a heap of incoherent sobs if she did.

"I could take on more than two of you," Tom replied. Polite, conversational. "But I have no intention of challenging Hermione."

"Shut up," said Harry, just as conversationally. "Hermione, you've lost the right to decide what happens next. You're going to do exactly what I say. Nod if you agree."

There was nothing for it. Hermione did not even care what happened next, and whether she went to Azkaban. The loss of Harry's trust was so very, very much worse. She nodded.

"Call Winky back," Harry instructed. "I'm assuming that's how you've been doing it, with Winky's help. Take Riddle to the Chamber and leave him there, _no detours_."

"But he can—"

"It doesn't matter," Harry forestalled her, reading her mind. "He still can't Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds or get around Dumbledore's enchantments without a wand."

Hermione nodded. A pervasive numbness was beginning to steal through her.

Harry checked his watch. "You have a Muggle phone, for contacting your parents?"

"Yes."

"Good. Floo to your flat when you're done with him and call in a tip to the Muggle police about this mess. I'll meet you there in an hour."

"All right... Harry, I'm so—"

"Not now." He nodded curtly at her and, without further comment, Disapparated.

Hermione had seldom felt sicker in her whole life. When she had Obliviated her parents, not knowing if she would ever see them again—that had been bad. When she had seen Hagrid carrying an apparently lifeless Harry out of the forest—that had been worse. But her actions then had been correct. _This_... this was her fault.

_Tom's doing, not yours, _her mind countered, but she could not let herself off the hook so easily. Tom had lied, and the Viper had killed the Muggle man, but she had been complicit, if only because of her own willful ignorance.

All the way back to the Chamber Hermione could not rid herself of the look on Harry's face. She could not bring herself to speak, but merely stood shivering and numb as Tom stared at her and Winky examined the enormous emerald eyes of a nearby stone snake.

"Hermione," said Tom. He did not seem to have anything else to say, but took her hands and flipped them palm up, tracing the lines in her skin.

"No," she replied softly. She was not even certain what she was saying no to.

He bent his head and kissed each of her fingertips in turn. Hermione closed her eyes briefly, then pulled her hands away. Tom began, instead, to trace lines along her forearms.

"The shackles don't stop you from doing magic," she said, more sadness than accusation in her tone.

"Nothing can stop me from doing magic."

"So you played me for a fool."

Tom's hands drifted to her shoulders and he raised an eyebrow. "No one could do that." He cupped the back of her neck. "I chose to keep my powers from interference. The most fundamental right of our world."

"And now a man is dead."

"That was not my doing."

Hermione sighed. He was so skilled with words, as with everything else. He had such a talent for bending ideas to suit his needs. But that would not be enough, not this time, not with her.

"You know that I can't trust you any longer," she told him, barely getting the words out over the tremor in her voice.

Tom's fingers wound into her hair and his thumbs drew circles against her jaw.

"You never trusted me, Hermione," he said softly. There was something in the perfect tonelessness of his voice that made her think the words upset him more than he let on. "Even before I gave you reason to, you were always jumping at shadows in my presence. There was nothing I could do to convince you to feel otherwise. I've had my powers all along. I could have killed Potter and taken his wand. I could have escaped the Ministry long ago. But I preferred to remain shackled and imprisoned for the benefit of your company. And still you never trusted me without an Unbreakable Vow. So tell me, what did I have to lose?"

Hermione exhaled harshly as he began to trace the line of her collarbone.

"A man is dead," she said again. "And all you can think about is the fairness of your situation."

"I don't regret his death," Tom said, his hands sliding back down her arms. "But I would not have killed him myself."

"You almost killed _me._"

His hands tightened around hers.

"There would be no point to my existence without you," he said fiercely.

Hermione squeezed back, then dropped his hands and left.

* * *

Hermione sat on her sofa, wringing her hands in her lap. Harry had said an hour. It had been fifty-eight minutes. She'd had time to clean her entire flat twice, change into clean robes, and brew a kettle of tea, which she then poured down the drain because it was really not a tea-drinking occasion. The clock on her little coffee table ticked off the seconds, and the sound began to grow deafening. It seemed incredible to Hermione that things had somehow gotten _more_ complicated since she had been restored to her own time.

At last there was a knock at the door and Hermione waved her wand to let Harry in. He was clutching a piece of parchment that Hermione, in her anxious state, did not immediately recognize.

She gestured nervously at the seat next to her on the sofa, and Harry dropped into it, looking directly at her.

"I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this," he said.

Hermione looked at him curiously, and something clicked into place. "You already knew? You knew he'd left the Chamber? _How?_"

Harry waved the piece of parchment and Hermione recognized it: the Marauder's Map.

"But the Chamber's not on the map," she protested.

"Exactly. You go down to the kitchens and vanish, Hermione, and you reappear elsewhere in the castle hours later. It's not difficult to deduce."

"Then you must have been watching me constantly. Why...?"

Harry sighed. "I was there, Hermione, in 1945. I saw your face when you realized Riddle had lost his memories of you."

"Harry, I didn't—None of this was meant as a betrayal. I thought if I could find out what he was thinking, if he was up to something, I could help him on the way to letting go of the past. It was better than... Esher tortured him for _eleven days_, Harry."

"That wasn't my call. I didn't approve of it."

"But it still happened." Hermione bit her lip, unwilling to argue with Harry. "How did you find us? In the warehouse."

"There's a trace on the shackles. It's activated if anyone dies in proximity to Riddle. You can understand why I didn't tell you."

"But then why didn't the Ministry find out?"

"I saw on the Map you'd left the castle and I asked to be put on duty to guard the trace for the evening, so I could make sure no one found out what you'd done in case something went wrong," Harry explained. "I knew it was no use trying to convince you to stay away from him, and I figured there was a better chance of finding out what Riddle was up to if I let him go after it himself. And while I was busy playing Dumbledore's game a man died." There was a surprising note of bitterness in his voice.

"So you were... protecting me from the Ministry?" said Hermione, amazed.

"You don't think I want to see you go to Azkaban, do you?"

Hermione's heart swelled with such incredulous gratitude that she felt tears prickle at her eyes, and quickly turned away so that Harry would not see her dabbing at her face.

"So what do we do now?" she asked, attempting with limited success to keep her voice even.

"Well, first you tell me who killed the Muggle in the warehouse."

"He's a man called the Viper, an old ally of Tom's. He claims the Ministry's been on his trail for years, but they've never caught up to him. He's a Squib but he's extremely powerful, because of his connections and those who serve him. Tom took me to see him on the night McGonagall caught us in Hogsmead, and he claimed the Sorting Hat was a Horcrux. He showed up just before you did at the warehouse and shot the Muggle man with a gun. The bullet was coated in poison. I tried, but there was nothing I could do..."

Harry's eyes widened and he muttered, "That's got to be the truth, it's too mad to be anything else."

"I could lead you to his headquarters but I doubt he'd be there. He's incredibly clever, from what I can tell."

Harry nodded. "I recognize the name from some sealed records in the Auror Office archives. The Viper. His real name is Aleister Crowley, the Muggles have legends about him. He's faked his death a dozen times, but the latest was a year and a half ago. Voldemort killed him, actually. Or he thought he did. Crowley must have fed someone else Polyjuice and set them up to die as him."

"Crowley? I've heard of him. But... that would make him older than Dumbledore! He doesn't look it."

Harry did not seem to be listening. "But I've never heard of this business with the Sorting Hat..." Suddenly he sat up and gave Hermione a sharp look. "And Riddle took you to meet him?"

She nodded, uncertain.

"Hermione, you know this can't go on, don't you?" Harry asked in a tense voice. "You can't keep visiting Riddle, letting him get into your head. You certainly can't let him out anymore. I won't cover for you again. If you try anything else I'll have to let the Ministry know."

"Harry, I—I understand, but... I mean, he hasn't done anything. He hasn't killed anyone or even hurt—"

"Not for lack of trying, from the looks of that warehouse."

"That was a mistake. I went too far, I shouldn't have brought up his mother."

Harry threw his hands up in the air.

"What kind of an excuse is that? You're so far in denial, Hermione, I don't think you can even hear how you sound anymore! I get it, all right? Being trapped in the past must have been awful, and you had to do whatever you could to survive. You were alone and you were looking for something to hold on to. Trying to get through to Riddle back then may have made some kind of sense. But enough's enough! You're forgetting yourself, going against the Ministry and just letting him out of the Chamber where he could easily have killed—"

"I made him take an Unbreakable Vow," Hermione interrupted quietly. "He couldn't have killed anyone without dying himself."

Harry's jaw dropped and his tirade died in his throat. Sucking in a quick breath, he looked at Hermione with a new, caustic sort of disappointment that made her wish she could sink into the floor and vanish.

"You—you risked—" he bit out.

"I was trying to make everything safe."

"He's no use to use dead, Hermione! We need to find out what he's up to. You've developed some sort of crazy _blindness _where he's concerned—"

"I know, Harry." The tears were back, burning and threatening to spill over. "I know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll do anything you ask, I swear."

Harry watched her. He did not curse her and storm out, nor did he offer a comforting hand as a few tears rolled down her cheeks in spite of her. At last he gave a slow dip of the head that might have been a nod.

"But first," Hermione added, brushing off her face with her sleeve, "I'm going to need you to impersonate a student for a detention."

* * *

Branches snapped and leaves squelched beneath their feet as Harry and Hermione walked along the overgrown path, squinting in the darkness. The forest was alive all around them, chirping and rustling and occasionally howling, and Hermione's nerves were very nearly shot. Every shadow looked to her like the Viper ready to jump out at her, or a Ministry official waiting to seize her for her crimes.

"Would you stop yelping every few feet?" Harry griped. "This is bad enough already."

"I'm sorry. This is just... so ridiculous."

"Yeah, I can't believe they still insist on sending students into the Forest for detentions. As if we haven't learned often enough why that never ends well."

"No, I mean all of this, everything—" But she broke off as a disturbance sounded in the distance and whipped out her wand, watching Harry do the same out of the corner of her eye. He was in Rickard Burbage's body for the moment, but he still moved with Harry's lightning quick reflexes.

She raised her eyebrows and he frowned, shaking his head.

_Not an animal_, he mouthed. Hermione agreed. The sounds were too purposeful for some creature of the Forest. Someone was crashing through the undergrowth.

"... telling you, I heard something," a gruff voice insisted nearby, while another scoffed. Hermione's heart sank: it was too late to turn and run. The intruders were too near, and turning their backs on them would be most unwise. They could hide, or they could stand their ground and find out what they were dealing with.

The choice was taken from them when no fewer than eight men in dark cloaks emerged from the trees to face Harry and Hermione, their wands held aloft.

"What the 'ell's this, then?" barked the tallest of the men, whose face was obscured by his hood.

"Students, Thurkell," said the man to his left.

_Thank Merlin_ Harry was disguised, Hermione thought frantically.

"Bloke is," the one called Thurkell grunted. "Girl's too old."

"Hang on, I recognize her," said a third man. "Isn't it Harry Potter's Mudblood? Granger?"

Hermione's blood had turned to ice and she could feel Harry's panic, a tangible presence at her side. What would Tom do if he were here, she wondered again?

Take command.

She laughed coldly. "You need your eyes checked," she said in a drawl that would have put Draco Malfoy to shame. "I don't associate with Mudblood scum." And she spat on the ground.

The men shuffled uncertainly and looked at one another, clearly not the brightest lot. Good. That would play in her favor. Next to her Harry stiffened but managed to force out a humorless laugh to match hers.

"What're you doing here, then?" Thurkell demanded.

"I'm not aware that it's any of your business what his most trusted advisers do on special assignments," Hermione retorted. It was just vague enough that she thought it might work. Whoever these people were working for, it was not the Ministry. And indeed, a number of them gasped and lowered their wands by a fraction.

"You're... _his_ too?" asked the man on Thurkell's left.

"Do you mean to say you haven't even been made aware of the situation?" said Harry disdainfully, joining in. That was a good route to take. They needed to find out who these men were working for without giving themselves away.

"Now, wait just a minute," Thurkell protested, thrown off balance. "I—"

"Pathetic," Hermione interrupted. "What is our creed?"

"_To rise and rise again_," a few of them chanted in unison.

"No, it's to rise and rise _once more_, idiots," Thurkell growled.

"What's it matter? He rose a coupl'a times, didn't 'e? An' we followed..."

Hermione exchanged a brief glance with Harry, who looked utterly bemused.

"Technically 'e didn't rise, 'e came back to life, so shouldn't it be _To resonate and_—"

"You mean 'resurrect,' you dolt, not 'resonate'—"

Hermione felt on the verge of passing out. _To rise and rise again_. Resurrected... She knew who they must be looking for. The Viper's prediction had come through, and they had answered the call.

These men were here for Tom.

"SHUT UP!" roared Thurkell, who seemed to have finally had enough of the dim-wittedness of his associates. He rounded on Hermione and raised his head, so that she could see the cruel gleam of his dark eyes under his hood. "If you're so well informed, an' all, why don't you lead the way?"


	21. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Merci, thank you, gracias to all who reviewed! **IDanceToForget, Atlantean Diva, LCB, kiera-sama, maximumtrouble10, CheshireCat23, demisses, TheLightningScar, MidniteCurse4Eternity...** We broke 300 reviews, woot woot! I promise to share my Netflix subscription with all of you... Already halfway done the second part of this story, I can't believe it! This chapter is slightly shorter than usual but it worked as is. Sorry for all the ambiguity at the end. You guys keep yelling at me about all the cliffhangers, I keep writing more... And so the world goes round. Cheers!

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Hermione marched the party out of the Forest and to the Hogwarts gates, counting down the minutes until Harry's Polyjuice wore off in her head. When they had left the boundaries of the school she asked, "Is everyone old enough to Apparate?"

The men all agreed, though she noticed that one of them kicked the other in the shins before the latter nodded. Harry was watching her apprehensively.

"We're going to Apparate to Hogsmead, just outside of Gladrag's Wizardwear. Everyone cast a silencing charm on themselves, please, so that we don't wake any villagers when we arrive."

"I thought... it was in the castle," a cloaked man named Gamp piped up.

"Thicker than a filthy Squib, this one," Hermione drawled to Harry, cringing inwardly at the words coming out of her mouth. To Gamp she added, "Seeing as how everyone _thinks_ it's in the school, that's the last place it will really be, isn't it?"

How did they know Tom's hiding place was in the school, she wondered? But there was no time to dwell on the question, because her retort seemed to satisfy Gamp, who followed his compatriots' example and cast a silencing charm on himself. Hermione took a deep breath, turned on the spot, and Apparated into the alley where Tom had first shown her the passageway to the Viper's underground lair. One by one the cloaked men and Harry appeared around her. After performing a quick head count Hermione opened the door to the cellar and led them all down through the trap door and into the secret passageway.

"_Adducet Conspectus_," Hermione breathed, and Harry's disbelieving face was illuminated next to hers by the light of a hundred torches.

"Oh, this is proper mysterious, like," Gamp murmured in awe, and began to stride down the corridor.

"What are you doing?" Harry hissed at her a few minutes later under cover of a raucous argument between the men about the length of their cloaks.

"We had to take them somewhere," Hermione replied, reminding herself irresistibly of the time in their fifth year when she had led Umbridge into Grawp's Hollow. Trying not to think of how badly that plan had turned out, she waited until the men were too distracted by their fight to pay any attention, and slipped Harry another dose of Polyjuice. He gulped it down, grimaced, and marched the rest of the way down the corridor alongside her in silence.

When they arrived at the Viper's door and knocked, Hermione was not entirely surprised to find that it swung open of its own accord and allowed them inside. There were no servants to greet them this time, however, and when they passed through the vestibule into the main dungeon they found the place deserted.

"Well?" asked Thurkell aggressively, looking around at the ornate velvet upholstery as though it were a drab alleyway not worthy of his time and attention.

"Watch your tone, scum!" Harry spat at him. Just when Hermione was beginning to wonder if he was overplaying his hand a little she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Glancing cautiously left and right, she saw several shadows lurking behind the draperies.

"On three," she hissed out of the corner of her mouth to Harry, whose face registered confusion for only a moment before he understood and nodded.

_One._

"This place is _right posh,_" said the man on Gamp's left, reaching for a chintz armchair and stroking its gold frame appreciatively.

_Two._

Thurkell swooped down to snarl in Hermione's face.

_Three._

"All right, what the hell is—"

"STUPEFY!"

Just as Hermione and Harry threw themselves flat on the floor with their hands over their heads, a dozen jets of blinding red light streaked across the room from every corner, immobilizing Thurkell and all his associates. There were a series of resounding _thunks_ as the cloaked men keeled over, stunned, and then the Viper's men began to emerge, stowing their wands calmly in their holsters and dragging their victims away without comment. Hermione reached for Harry's hand to ensure that he had not been hit, but Harry was looking over her shoulder, his eyes narrowed.

"Some quick thinking on your part, Miss Granger," said the Viper himself, offering a hand to help Hermione to her feet.

"Thank you," she muttered, dragging Harry up in his turn.

"Would you like to explain why you have seen fit to begin using my headquarters as an emergency rescue station?"

"I didn't think you'd want those men getting into the school any more than I do," Hermione replied, her ability to think on her feet hanging by a thread. Harry was standing very still at her side, and still the minutes before his transformation back to himself were ticking by.

The Viper's gaze sharpened at once. "Indeed. Your opinion, Riddle?"

A series of unutterable curse words ran through Hermione's head. The Viper thought Tom was disguised again. Praying silently that Harry would keep silent and let her do the talking, she shook her head. No one could pull off Tom but Tom.

"This is the real Rickard Burbage," Hermione announced. "He was serving detention with me when _they_ arrived. Quite lucky for me that you were here today, Mr Crowley."

He was completely diverted, as she had meant him to be. Thankfully, Harry chose not to question the situation and adopted an expression of careful apprehension.

"Just when I manage to convince myself that you are nothing more than a fool in the right place at the right time," said the Viper in a very low voice. "You are a most peculiar witch, Miss Granger. I wondered for a long time what Riddle saw... Well, you shall take care of Obliviating the boy, of course?"

"Of course."

"I am an old man, Miss Granger. I wonder if you might indulge my curiosity. What is it that you think will happen, precisely, when Riddle finds out what you have been keeping from him?"

Something was happening, something just beyond Hermione's grasp. Her reaction to Thurkell and his men had given the Viper the impression that she knew more than she had let on. Hermione saw no reason to disabuse him of this notion. Harry's eyes darted between them and she could tell that he, too, was grappling to follow the conversation.

"What makes you think Tom is a threat to me?" she asked carefully, feigning a confidence she did not feel.

"Come now, young woman, let us not pretend. We both know that what is between your legs is not enough motivation for Salazar Slytherin's heir to give up his throne."

Harry's jaw clenched and Hermione threw him a quick warning glance.

"I'll make you a deal, Crowley, if you like," she said, gathering her nerves about her. "If I tell you exactly why Tom owes loyalty to me above all others, you'll tell me how it is that you stand here looking like a man of sixty, when you ought to be at least two hundred years old."

She stuck out her hand. To her surprise, the Viper shook it at once.

"I could lie," he pointed out.

"But you're a Squib, and I'm a Legilimens," Hermione bluffed, disliking herself a little for the harshness of her words. "If you lie, I'll know. And besides, I think you're a man of your word."

The Viper dropped into an armchair, considering her with an inscrutable expression. Hermione took a deep breath, the minutes still ticking by in her head. How to go about this succinctly?

"Tom's memories of the time I spent in his past were erased," she said. "Obviously. But the portion of his soul trapped in his diary—one of his Horcruxes—kept those memories. And because I was willing to sacrifice my own future, my own life, to stay in the past and try to correct Tom's path, he received a protection like the one Lily Potter gave her son. When Harry Potter destroyed the diary Horcrux, the version of Tom inside it had already written me a letter. And he felt remorse before he was blotted out of existence—the only method of reversing the damage caused by splitting the soul. The letter to me became the exact opposite of a Horcrux: which is to say, the object it was bound to was holding it back rather than keeping it safe. I burned the letter and released a version of Tom's soul that was intact once more. It was untested magic, never even attempted before. No one knew Tom would come back to life, least of all me. His entire existence is built on the foundations of my forgiveness. He _needs_ me."

Hermione stopped herself, because her heartbeat had quickened as she spoke and her words had begun to tumble out faster and faster. She had not realized how fully she believed the story until she recited it out loud. She had gotten so wrapped up in distrusting Tom, for a million reasons... How could she have been so short-sighted?

A slow smile had appeared on the Viper's face; a poisonous expression, one that Hermione did not like to see. At last he spoke.

"I have told you before, Miss Granger, that the Hogwarts Sorting Hat was itself a Horcrux. You know the legends, I presume: the Hat was Godric Gryffindor's own. And so I imagine you have also wondered what could have become of the immortal Gryffindor. His body has been rebuilt many times, I can tell you that much. Much the same way that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rebuilt his body after his defeat at the hands of an infant Harry Potter. Perhaps you are aware that it is possible, by means of a Horcrux, to siphon a person's life force away from them. Rumor has it that Riddle attempted it on Harry Potter's lovely little Weasley paramour in her school days. But the same is possible in reverse."

"You mean... It's possible to pour years of one's life into someone else through a Horcrux?" whispered Hermione, her eyes wide.

"Quite. I have long had an arrangement with Gryffindor, you see. I provide him with certain... services, and in exchange he extends my life."

"What services? Where's Gryffindor now?"

The Viper's smile grew. "That was not part of the deal, Miss Granger. I agreed to answer one question. I assume that you, too, are a woman of your word."

"H—Professor Granger!" Harry interrupted her response, and Hermione turned to see him pointing at her chest. She looked down and received a shock that tore a small yelp from her throat.

She was glowing. A sphere of warm golden light enveloped the spot just above her heart. Slowly, Hermione began to feel an insistent tug just behind the light, as though she had forgotten something. It was rather an uncomfortable feeling, and quickly morphed into a painful ache. There was something she very badly needed to do. Someone was calling her name in the back of her mind, in a familiar voice, but she could not hear them clearly enough...

"It appears you are being summoned," said the Viper in a bored voice.

"Summoned? _Oh!_" Hermione recognized the voice in her head now, the insistent squeak that kept repeating, _Miss Granger! Miss Granger!_

"What—I—Even," Harry began, evidently confused beyond coherency.

"You need only Disapparate," the Viper informed them. "The summons will take you to your destination. I suggest you take the schoolboy with you if you do not want him tended to here. My Obliviators are not the gentlest lot."

With a curt nod, Hermione allowed one of the silent guards to lead her and Harry out of the dungeon to a door that led into the streets of London. The city was plunged into darkness, but automobiles still streaked by every few seconds. Ducking into an alleyway, they Dissilusioned themselves before Disapparating. Harry's face was beginning to melt back to its original state already. Hermione wondered what would become of Thurkell and his men now that she had left them at the Viper's mercy, and resolved to ask him the next time they crossed paths. She did not want the men, vile as they were, chained up and tortured in some dungeon.

At first Hermione thought they had made a mistake, because when they materialized she and Harry were in his new house in Godric's Hollow. Harry looked around at his own familiar wallpaper, equally wrong footed, until they heard a small whimper from the sitting room. They sprinted through the vestibule and found themselves in what looked like the site of a recent tornado.

"Oh, _Harry!_" said Hermione, taking in the shattered lamps, the torn up carpets, and the _books_... The poor, poor books with their pages ripped out. "What—What happened?"

"I don't know!"

"It was the bad man from the Ministry, Miss!"

At last they located the source of the summons. In a ravaged corner of the room, dazed and blinking back tears, sat Winky.

"Winky, are you all right?" Hermione exclaimed while Harry began to wave his wand to check on the protective enchantments around the house. The Elf nodded.

"Miss is saying that if Winky is ever needing anything, Winky can come to Miss for help. And Winky is needing help now."

"What happened here, Winky?"

"The bad man, Mr Esher. He is coming to get Winky and he is saying—he is saying he has been following Harry Potter, and he knows Harry Potter is keeping secrets, because Harry Potter has a secret map in his house. He is ordering Winky to take him to Tom Riddle, and Winky is saying no, because Mr Esher is saying he wants to make Tom Riddle pay for something. But—But," Winky sniffled before going on, "Mr Esher has Winky's friend Hob, and Mr Esher is saying he will hurt Hob if Winky is not doing what he says."

It was clear from the frightened look in Winky's tennis-ball eyes that Hob was more than a friend. Hermione's heart filled with anger for Esher and his dirty tactics.

"Winky is sorry, Miss. Winky is having no choice."

"Of course, Winky. Don't worry about it. What happened next?"

"Winky is taking Mr Esher into the Chamber of Secrets, and then Mr Esher is ordering Winky to take him and Tom Riddle to Mr Esher's house. It is a bad house, Miss. It is filled with wands Mr Esher is using especially for torturing dark wizards. But Tom Riddle is not letting himself be tortured, Miss. Winky knows Tom Riddle is not supposed to have magic, but Tom Riddle is doing magic anyway. He is..." Winky swallowed. "He is hurting Mr Esher with his magic for a while and then he is tying Mr Esher all up and taking his wand. And he is Apparating here with Mr Esher and telling Winky to give the Department of Mysteries a message."

"Esher must have been spying on me from the beginning. He must have torn up the house looking for the Marauder's Map. _Thank God_ Ginny wasn't here," said Harry fiercely. "Where's Esher now, Winky? Upstairs?"

Winky nodded, but Hermione was hardly paying attention.

"_What was the message, Winky?_" she asked urgently.

The Elf's eyes brimmed over with nervous tears as she pulled something from behind her back and held it out to Hermione, who recognized a pair of glimmering golden shackles.

Tom was free.

* * *

_My old friend,_

_I have in my custody eight rather uncouth men I have been given to understand are in your employ. They have been detained in my top security cells. Perhaps you might like to claim them._

_If my calculations are correct, Esher will have played his part as we anticipated and Tom Riddle will have won his freedom by now. If I know him, he will seek followers to carry out his dirty work while he himself undertakes greater endeavors. The Ministry may be his objective. I do not believe the rumors regarding Hermione Granger hold any truth. She is an unremarkable witch and not likely to hold any sway over him._

_I await your council on this matter. I also believe the time for another transfer may be drawing near. I feel my spirit beginning to fade._

_Your faithful servant,_

_Aleister_

* * *

Hermione was back at Hogwarts. But not her Hogwarts; Tom's Hogwarts. It surprised her that her heart swelled with some small measure of fondness at the sight of it. As she walked through the corridors she observed the small differences that had grown familiar to her while she had resided in Slytherin house with Tom. The Transfiguration wing was smaller, the portraits were different, the torches did not burn quite so bright.

But why was she here? She had returned to her time. Harry had come for her...

_Harry._ She was in Harry's house, dreaming. He had told her to get some rest before they undertook the interrogation of Esher, but she had decided to do a bit of research first. Harry would likely not be surprised to find her asleep in his library, as he had done many times before. Yet Hermione frowned. She was not in the habit of experiencing lucid dreams. It had only happened a handful of times before, when—

"When Tom was in my head," she said out loud as realization struck.

"How nice of you to remember."

There he was. His voice washed over Hermione like a warm, comforting tide. She did not know how it was possible to miss him even when he was there in front of her, but she did, she _did_.

"I don't know how I ever endured this castle without your face in it, love," said Tom, striding up to her and placing his hands on her waist.

"Tom, _where are you?_ The Ministry is in an absolute panic!"

"And they should be. I plan to disembowel as many children and puppies as I can."

Hermione made a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. "This is serious. I need—I can't stand not seeing... Are you in danger? What are you doing?"

"If I told you that, love, you'd come after me and put yourself at risk. I'm imploring you not to. I can assure you it has nothing to do with your darling Harry Potter."

Tears began to stream down Hermione's face. Dream tears, and yet she could feel her throat seizing up, taste the bitterness of sorrow in the back of her throat. Tom pulled her close and trailed his fingers up her spine, bending down to whisper in her ear.

"Every day I'm away from you is more painful than a hundred curses," he murmured, fingers brushing up and down. "I'll come back for you the very moment I'm free to do so. Hermione, Hermione, I will, I promise it. I will."

Her vision was blurred with tears. Tom scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the end of the corridor, out onto the grounds. There he laid her down on the grass and carefully unbuttoned her blouse, trailing kisses down her neck.

"Where are you?" Hermione asked again.

"I'm right here."

His eyes remained trained on hers as he smoothed her skirt up her legs and entered her gently, holding her waist and tracing circles over her skin with his thumbs.

Later, when Hermione awoke, there were tear tracks drying along her face. Harry was gone, and the book she had been pursuing had fallen from her lap. She picked it up and her heart missed a beat. It was _The Life And Lies Of Albus Dumbledore_. She must have pulled it from its shelf in her sleep, because she could not remember seeking it out. The spine was bent and the book had fallen open to the page with the photograph depicting a teenage Dumbledore and Grindelwald laughing together. Hermione could imagine Harry returning to this particular page quite often. She stared at the picture for a long time.

And suddenly, she knew.


	22. Chapter 21

**A/N:** Copious gratitudes to all who reviewed: **MidniteCurse4Eternity, TheLightningScar, TheNewCompanion, werevampluvr, Guest, IDanceToForget, CheshireCat23...** Guys, I'm so sorry. Well, you'll see...

* * *

**TWENTY-ONE**

"This is an unmitigated catastrophe!"

"... Don't understand how this could have happened—"

"... Never seen anything like it."

"... Really don't know how we can cover it up now!"

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance over the Minister's mahogany conference table, keeping their expressions neutral. They had been weathering the brunt of the Ministry's panic for over an hour, and there did not appear to be any form of calm resolution on the horizon. A dull throb was beginning to settle between Hermione's temples.

"If I could say something," Harry interjected, and though he did not raise his tone every eye in the room fell to him at once. "Right now what's important isn't so much how it happened as what we're going to do about it."

"But the particulars are of import," Esher countered. "If we are to secure Riddle and avoid repeating the mistakes that led to his escape in the first place, we ought to be as informed as possible."

Harry threw him a dirty look. After forcing Veritaserum down his throat, he and Hermione had discovered that Esher had been tailing Harry for weeks, unsatisfied with the treatment of Tom's case. The Unspeakable had worked out most of the intrigue for himself: that Hermione was visiting Tom, and that Harry was covering for her. What neither he nor any of them had yet been able to work out was just what in the world Tom was up to. Unfortunately, rather than reporting any of this to the Ministry, Esher had elected to take matters into his own hands, with disastrous consequences.

"We're going to have to cut a deal with him," Harry had whispered to Hermione afterward.

"What?" she had exclaimed, outraged.

"If we turn him in to the Ministry what do you think his next move will be? Kingsley will find out about your little field trips with Riddle."

"I... I'll accept the consequences of my actions."

"Come on, Hermione! You're really going to put me in the position of having to arrest you?"

Hermione had looked at him shrewdly. "That's not the whole problem, though, is it?"

"Well, I believe you about Riddle's remorse, and all that," Harry had admitted. "Which means you're probably the only one who can find out what he's up to. You can't do that from inside Azkaban."

"Harry—"

"Look, do you have any idea what this will do to Ginny, when it leaks that he's out there on the run? I'm not letting this go, Hermione."

Under his scorching glare she had quailed, and so they had agreed not to turn Esher in, in exchange for his silence about their own transgressions. Soon thereafter Hermione had departed to locate Winky's friend Hob. She had not seen Harry and Esher again until this morning, when an urgent meeting had been called in the Minister's office for all those involved in the Riddle affair. Sitting across from Esher made bile rise in her throat.

_It is a bad house, Miss. Filled with wands he is using for torturing dark wizards..._

"He left these behind," Harry told Esher, breaking into Hermione's reverie.

The gold shackles were waved through the air for a moment and set on the table. A collective gasp ran through the assembly.

"Those were supposed to inhibit Riddle from using any magic," said McGonagall. "Dumbledore said..."

"He must have cast a shield charm around himself before they could be put on him," Hermione explained.

Kingsley's low, soothing voice sounded alarmed, for once. "Without a wand? He may be capable of powerful bursts of wandless magic, but controlled spells are impossible without—"

"Not for him." Hermione shrugged.

"He should be treated as a hostile case," said Esher abruptly, and Hermione turned to him, shocked.

"As in _Kill On Sight?_" she exclaimed. "You can't be serious!"

"Riddle hasn't done anything that falls under the category of hostile," said Harry sharply, which, of course, was far from true. The flames engulfing the Muggle warehouse flashed through Hermione's mind, and Winky's voice squeaking _He is hurting Mr Esher with his magic..._

Esher seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"His very escape can be classified as hostility in this instance," he said, his eyes lingering maliciously on Hermione. "It is unlikely that he could have managed it without outside help, which means it was a premeditated feat. Why plot an escape if one is not hostile?"

"He escaped because he knew he'd never be offered a fair chance to prove himself!" Hermione began shrilly, but Harry flashed her a warning look, and she took a deep breath. It would not do to reveal too much emotional involvement, lest she should be removed from the inner circle.

"If he wishes to prove his good intentions, let him turn himself in. In the meantime, it is our duty to put the memories of the thousands who lost their lives to the Dark Lord ahead of the whims of this supposed _Tom Riddle_."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nearly all others at the table were nodding approvingly.

"I'm afraid I have no choice but to agree," said Kingsley. "If Riddle turns himself in to the Ministry he will be given amnesty. In the interim, he will be treated as a hostile case.

All the air flew out of Hermione's lungs as though she had been kicked in the stomach.

_Hostile case. Kill On Sight._

"If he's found a wand no one will be able to subdue him," she said desperately, her hands trembling. "It will only lead to more destruction. Please—"

"So you admit his aims include destruction?"

"No, no, that's not—"

_Hostile case._

"Hermione, I understand your concern, but this is my final word on the matter."

_Kill On Sight._

Hermione could not breathe. Her lungs were screaming. She had to get out.

She was barely aware of jumping to her feet and sprinting out of the room. She thought Harry might be following her, but she could not see where she was going.

_Hostile case._

_Kill On Sight._

"Hermione!"

She stopped when a hand clamped around her arm.

"Harry, this is _wrong!_ You know it is."

"Look at it from their point of view, Hermione. To them Riddle is nothing but a risk, a burden. No one's forgotten the war, they've all lost loved ones to Voldemort."

"So you think Tom should be killed for something he wasn't even alive to participate in?"

"No, of course not. That's why we have to get to Riddle first. And you know something to help us get there, Hermione. You've had that look on your face all day like when you nabbed Skeeter."

Hermione took a deep breath to calm herself and looked into Harry's eyes. She had not realized she was being so obvious about it.

_Hostile case._

_Kill On Sight._

"I think," she said slowly, "I had better _show_ you."

Harry smiled ruefully as though he had expected nothing less than her usual cryptic hints, and scrawled a quick memo to inform their superiors that they would be pursuing leads outside of the Ministry for the remainder of the day. An hour later found them sitting in the Department of Magical Transportation, watching a harassed looking wizard read over the terms of a form filled in by Hermione.

"Hamburg?" said the wizard with narrowed eyes.

"Germany," Hermione agreed succinctly, and there was a sharp intake of breath from Harry.

"I don't recall any operations being set up in Germany."

"Top secret." Hermione winked. "Isn't it, Harry?"

Harry threw her a dirty look but said, "Yes, I know the Minister wouldn't mind. I can speak to him personally if you like..."

"No, no," said the desk wizard hurriedly, stamping a seal of approval at the top of the form and dropping into an out-tray. "That won't be necessary."

Harry groaned as they walked away, but Hermione was triumphant. Pulling a packet of paperclips from her pocket, she tapped it with her wand and muttered "_Portus._"

"Are we going where I think we're—"

"Hands on the box, Harry."

The packet of paperclips glowed blue as Harry placed a finger on it, and in an instant Hermione felt a sharp tug at her navel. Then she was twirling faster and faster through the void and her head was spinning and she could feel Harry next to her but she could not see. And just as quickly as it had begun, the journey ended. Her feet hit solid ground and she managed to maintain her balance by throwing an arm out and steadying herself against Harry.

They looked up together in awe at the daunting fortress that stood before them. It was a tower a blackest stone, an impossibly tall spire that rose into the sky so high they had to crane their necks to peer at its summit. The words were just visible over the entranceway: _For the Greater Good_. A crumbling archway allowed passage into the dimly lit vestibule, behind which stood a dilapidated mannequin. Hermione frowned at it. She had read about the automated security measures, but had not expected to find the place so worn down and deserted.

With identical, practiced movements Harry and Hermione held up their Ministry identification cards for examination by the mannequin. After an awkward ten seconds of silence there was a grinding sound followed by a warm glow that surrounded the mannequin's head.

"Visitors to Nurmengard prison, state your purpose," said a rumbling male voice with a strong German accent.

"We're here on business for the British Ministry," said Hermione with as much assurance as she could muster. "We'd like to see cell 4-28 B."

There was a series of odd mechanical clicks, then the voice said, "Cell 4-28 B. Vacant. Very well, stand by for admittance."

As they ascended a set of narrow, seemingly interminable stone steps, Harry muttered, "What's in Cell 4-28 B?" But he sounded as though he already knew quite well.

"You'll see," replied Hermione impassive. "I think you'll probably recognize it."

At last they arrived at their destination, an empty cell filled with decades of grime and illuminated by a single minuscule slit of a window. The bars stood open, and Hermione wandered cautiously inside to trace the contours of a set of faint carvings in the wall. Harry, for his part, had jumped back.

"It looks exactly like I remember it," he said. "Just like when I was in Voldemort's head..."

"Yes," said Hermione grimly. "You understand the significance?"

Harry nodded. "But I don't see why you brought us here."

Hermione pointed to the carvings in the wall, and as Harry drew near his eyes widened, first in confusion, then in dawning realization. The first of the carvings was a familiar symbol, like an eye with a vertical slit inside a triangle: the sign of the Deathly Hallows. The next was a crude depiction of a falcon, Grindelwald's family crest. And the last...

"Gryffindor's lion," Hermione breathed. "If the Sorting Hat was a Horcrux, Harry, where did Gryffindor go all these years? What became of him?"

Harry could only stare.

"This is what became of him," she finished. "Grindelwald."

* * *

In the next of Hermione's dreams, courtesy of Tom, she found herself back in the cave at the foot of the mountains near Hogsmead, where Fawkes the Phoenix had dwelt long ago. The significance was not lost on her.

"This is where you first said it." She knew without having to turn around that he was there.

"Said what, love?" His hands brushed her hair over her shoulder and his breath ghosted over the nape of her neck.

"That. _Love._"

Tom spun her around to look at her, and as often happened, she found herself completely side-tracked by the heat in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to devour her. Hermione had always told herself that she was the kind of person who wanted nothing more than a kind, simple heart and pair of broad shoulders upon which to rest her troubles. But she had been wrong, entirely wrong. She had never known until she had met Tom what magnificent madness it was to provoke that look in someone's eyes.

"You still sound surprised when you speak of it," he observed.

"It never made sense. You were never supposed to love anyone."

"You defy sense," he said, kissing her fiercely.

When Hermione pulled back she said, "They've put out an order to have you killed on sight."

He laughed. Of course he did.

"And I'm to turn myself in, is that it?" he asked, his voice husky as he continued to toy with her hair.

"Yes. If you told me where you are, I could help you."

"I'll take it under advisement," he said mockingly.

"Tom?"

"Hermione."

"There's a Muggle proverb. It comes from a story by John Milton, _Paradise Lost_. 'It's better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.'"

"Admirably apt sentiment for a Muggle."

"Is that what you're doing, then?" Tom looked at her blankly and her heart contracted. "You'd rather drag yourself and anyone else behind you through hell than accept your place in the world?"

Tom looked directly into her eyes, stroking the side of her face.

"Yes."

Hermione turned away, exhaling harshly, but there he was in front of her again, inescapable. He held onto her hands and a look of concentration came over his face. And suddenly they were in the Ministry, as Hermione remembered it from the war. That horrific statue, with the witch and wizard sitting atop a throne of contorted Muggles, loomed above them.

"Do you think everyone should just accept their place in the world, Hermione?" he asked, eyeing the Muggles with their agonized faces. "You think that because I was born to a family who threw me away I should accept my lot in life?"

"That's _not_ what I meant and you know it—"

"I know what I'm capable of, Hermione, and it includes greatness, and it includes loving you, and it doesn't include waiting around for Ministry goons to catch up. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be for you."

"I—"

_Hostile case._

_Kills On Sight._

_Hostile case._

"Hermione! _Hermione!_"

She opened her eyes and found herself dozing on a couch in Harry's sitting room. Harry was shaking her awake, waving a sheaf of parchment urgently in her face.

"What happened?" she muttered blearily.

"I just got the reports back from the undertakers who buried Grindelwald after his body was removed from Nurmengard."

"Yes?"

"They've uncovered the coffin and—Merlin, you were right. There's no body in it. Nothing."

Hermione was suddenly wide awake.

"So Grindelwald—Gryffindor—What do we call him? He must have arranged to rebuild his body like Voldemort did," Harry went on. There was a hard, frantic note in his voice that she had not heard since the war, and not for the first time Hermione was desperately sorry to have dragged him into this nightmarish affair.

Except that the horrors they were uncovering were not her doing. Grindelwald would have been out and about whether she had found out about him or not; whether she had met Tom or not.

And she would be _damned_, after everything they had been through, if they would let another madman rise to power.

"I'll bet it was the Viper," she told Harry. "Aleister Crowley. He said he had an arrangement with Gryffindor. He must have helped him regain his body."

Harry's response was interrupted by the appearance of a dazzling silvery creature that burst through the wall and landed before them: Kingsley's lynx. The last time Hermione had seen it, the Ministry had fallen. Her heart clenched with dread as the lynx opened its mouth and spoke in the Minister's voice.

"_Memo coming your way. See me before you do anything."_

The creature dissipated before Harry and Hermione could do more than gape at it in alarm. Moments later a loud _crack_ sounded in the sitting room, and a folded memo in Ministry purple appeared in mid-air. It landed in Harry's hands, and his eyes became an immediate storm of anger and dismay as he scanned its contents. At last he looked up at Hermione, and his mouth opened and closed as though he could not bring himself to speak.

"What?" said Hermione quietly.

"They..." Harry swallowed. "They found Riddle."

"_And?_"

"And he was treated as a hostile case."

Harry handed her the memo. Hermione read the first line, and then she began to die.

There could be no other word for it. Her internal organs began to atrophy; her lungs to shrivel and her heart to disintegrate. Her muscles had seized up and she could not move, could not stand, could not breathe. The memo fell from her hands and fluttered to the floor, where it lay open, revealing sharp black writing.

_Riddle apprehended. Killed on sight._

* * *

**A/N:** Please don't murder me! Put the pitchforks down! Before I go hide in a corner, I'd like to mention that the astute reader may perhaps realize not everything is as it seems. And that's all I'll say. *Cowers*


	23. Chapter 22

**A/N:** You guys, I have to say, your faith in Tom really made me smile. And now it shall be rewarded. Much love to all who reviewed: **Kate Elizabeth Black, jodieleighcullen, IDanceToForget, CheshireCat23, demisses, NY GE Pyromaniac, maximumtrouble10, TheLightningScar, werevampluvr, skipbeataddict, TheNewCompanion...**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

Esher's wand felt _wrong_.

Riddle's skin crawled when he held it. Esher had possessed all of the brutality, and none of the subtlety, of a powerful wizard. His wand shared the same unfortunate traits.

Still, it was as malleable as any other, and he had put it to good use. With his freedom at last reclaimed Riddle had returned, under Disillusionment, to Hogwarts. There he had retrieved several items of a sensitive nature from the Room of Requirement before slipping into the Head's office to make off with the Sorting Hat and leaving a copy in its place.

Yes, it was a Horcrux, he could see that now. He recognized the traces of dark magic that he had failed to see as a student. All that remained was to find out _who's_ Horcrux it was...

But first he needed to establish himself in this new world.

It was all easy enough to grow accustomed to, if a little unnerving. All he had seen of the future for the past several months was the inside of the Ministry, Hogwarts, and the Viper's lair. He paused to look around him when he arrived in Glasgow, and Riddle could truthfully say that he was a little awed.

The automobiles were so numerous, so _fast_. They streaked past by the thousands on endless, criss-crossing roads. Above them, colossal buildings towered for miles, bearing flashing neon signs that made his head spin. Muggles walked by with miniature cordless telephones pressed to their ears, their clothing downright lewd. He was immensely thankful Hermione did not dress that way.

Riddle Apparated his way to the center of the city and rapidly found what he was looking for: The Snake Pit. Favourite haunt of all those who found Knockturn Alley a little too tame for their tastes. The pub was as carefully concealed as he remembered, but a single wave of Esher's wand undid all the protective enchantments around the place, and he entered with his head held high. His mere presence had once sent this place into a turmoil, when he was no more than sixteen.

The atmosphere had deteriorated somewhat. Where once the walls had been polished ebony, they were now plastered with ancient, dirty flyers and photographs that gave the place a claustrophobic air as a million tiny characters moved about from picture to picture. The bar was dented and scratched beyond imagining, and clouds of acrid smoke hung over the tables. The clientele, however, was largely the same. Solitary men with their faces hooded and gaggles of women wearing garish dragonskin clothing. All of them looked a little the worse for wear, which he supposed was the standard now that the Dark Lord was gone.

_Scum, end them, a flash of green and the world is well rid of them—_

Riddle made his way to the bar, calm and unhurried, and ordered a glass of water. The barman looked up, ready to grumble his annoyance at the request, and his words died in his throat. Yes, this was the same man Riddle had known in his youth, though nearly unrecognizable with age.

"No," breathed the man. Carlisle? Yes, Finnegan Carlisle.

Riddle smiled amiably, making no comment.

"So the rumors are true," said Carlisle, wiping his brow. He looked on the verge of fainting. "Allow me to fetch you something from our private stores, sir—"

"Water will be fine," Riddle cut across him.

Carlisle handed him a glass of water with shaking hands and scurried around the counter to speak to a group of men gathered in a corner. Riddle waited patiently, ignoring his glass.

Whispers rippled through the pub, and slowly but surely the air seemed to grow colder. Which of them would approach him, he wondered? The woman in the corner with the eye watering red lipstick, perhaps. Or the man carving out pieces of his table with a vicious looking little dagger.

Ah, so it was to be both. And a whole slew of others behind them. Times had grown bolder, it seemed.

They sat all around him, and Riddle watched imperiously, observing the way the woman licked her lips and the man's hands clenched around his dagger. A cursed weapon, to be certain.

"I require," he said slowly, unleashing all the silky command that had fallen into disuse through his interactions with Hermione, "an individual with a dark mark."

"Are you really him?" asked the woman with the lipstick, eyeing him up and down. She leaned forward in her chair and trailed two fingers up his arm, beaming.

"He's _fit_," whispered the woman behind her with a small giggle. "Never knew _he_ was meant to be so fit!"

Impertinence. Wonderful.

"Dark mark eh?" grunted the man on his other side.

"That is what I said."

"How do we know you're who you're supposed to be?"

"He doesn't look so dark," said the woman with the lipstick. There was firewhikey on her breath. Her hand dropped from his arm and came to rest on his knee.

"Doesn't look like much of anything," the man with the dagger added, as the woman's hand inched up his leg. Riddle imagined the look on Hermione's face if she were there at that moment.

_No._

Without moving his wand from his pocket, Riddle flicked his eyes over to the man with the dagger. Suddenly the man was writhing on the floor, screaming in agony, shouting for death and thrashing back and forth. And bizarrely, the woman with the lipstick was looking on with rapture in her eyes, her lips slightly parted. Her pupils were dilating and she let out a small moan as the man continued to scream.

_God_, he had not signed up for this. Had it always been this way? He had forgotten, in his months spent with no one but Hermione for company, how truly abhorrent people could be. The woman's hand slid further up his legs and for a moment he lost control, and she too was screaming and thrashing, but still she smiled, and her screams were joyful, and this was utter madness.

_Is it better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven?_ Hermione had asked him.

Riddle caught his breath and lifted the curse. The barkeep was watching in dismay, clearly unsure whether he ought to intervene.

"I require someone with a dark mark," Riddle repeated pleasantly, looking all around him at eager, greedy faces. Simple, easy. Faces he could use to his advantage, bend to his will. But somewhere along the way, somehow, the prospect had soured.

"We've got one up in the Inn, I reckon," Carlisle spoke up at last, and disappeared up the stairs that led to the rented rooms.

Riddle pulled a quill and parchment from his pocket as he waited, scrawling a message to the Viper and sealing it with a flick of Esher's wand. He transfigured his glass into an owl and tied the letter to its leg, releasing it to fly out the nearest window.

He had bartered with the Viper for Torrence Scabior, and forced the latter to drink Polyjuice so that he looked like Riddle himself. That would keep the Ministry busy for a little while. Of course, Hermione would go into a panic if Scabior was caught. She had said that he was to be treated as a hostile case, which likely meant that the Ministry had issued a kill order. But he could reassure her in a dream the next time she fell asleep. In the meantime, he would soon require another body to transform.

Carlisle reappeared with a tall, ragged looking man in tow, and muttered to Riddle, "This is Avery. Released from Azkaban. Cut a deal by naming names."

_Avery?_ Now, that was really too good. Riddle very nearly let out a chuckle.

"Sit," he told Avery curtly, and Avery sat.

Avery sat abruptly, as if his knees had given out, and Avery sat still as a dead man. He had grown incredibly pale and his eyes bulged. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

"It's been a long time, Avery."

"It's not possible," Avery murmured.

"I'm afraid it is. Now, if you please, I'd like to have a look at your mark."

Avery was a feeble old man nowadays. It was oddly fitting to see him this way. He had always been weak. Riddle grasped his arm and pulled back his sleeve, and there it was, faded and distorted: the skull with a serpent tongue.

The symbolism had perhaps been a little heavy-handed. A serpent alone might have sufficed.

"It's a marvel that I should run into you, here and now," Riddle observed, waving his wand over the mark, which began to contort. Avery winced. "This was, after all, the first mark of them all. A prototype, the night Hermione left our time. You remember the branding, I'm sure?"

Avery's lips thinned but he said nothing. He had finally learned the value of silence, then. Better late than never.

"So with the original before me," Riddle went on, "I may, in fact, modify them all. A forewarning of sorts, for the others. Do not move."

Avery did not look as if he could move a muscle even if he wished to. Riddle concentrated, twitching Esher's hateful wand, and began to recite an old incantation. And slowly, piece by piece, the dark mark began to change. The lines blurred at first, then separated and reformed a dozen times over, blending into one another and dancing across Avery's liver-spotted skin. At last he was satisfied with his work, and sat back to admire the snake wound around a pair of shackles. He had little doubt that his meaning would come across.

"That will be all for now," Riddle told Avery, sitting back and keeping an eye on the woman with the red lipstick, who had slunk into a corner but refused to tear her eyes from him. "You've been most helpful."

"Are you going to kill me?" Avery blurted.

Riddle smiled. "Yes. But not quite yet."

He paid for a room in gold he had taken from Esher—another bit of subterfuge for the Ministry, tedious but necessary—and left The Snake Pit behind. He entered the first vacant home he came to, cast a freezing charm when some form of electronic wailing began to blast through the house, and settled on the sitting room sofa. There, he laid out his treasures on the coffee table and observed them with some satisfaction.

Potter apparently had a map of Hogwarts, which he had used to keep tabs on Hermione. A surprisingly shrewd move. In another life, however, Tom Riddle had not been satisfied with merely the castle and grounds. Before he had stopped writing in his diary, he had created and hidden a map of wizarding Britain as a whole. All Riddle had needed to do was dash into the Room of Requirement and cast a quick "_Accio._" Simple and efficient.

The map, with all its various flaps and overlapping sections, covered the entire table. He scanned it for some time before he found what he was looking for: Hermione was at the Ministry with Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt. That was good. Whatever she had heard about Scabior, Potter would keep her from doing anything rash.

Scabior's body was at the Ministry, too, a few floors down from Hermione. Riddle had ordered him, under the _Imperius_ curse, to continue drinking Polyjuice every hour. His body must not have transformed back yet, or there would have been a great deal more chaos in the Ministry. Carefully, Riddle picked up his second treasure. It was a minuscule vial of a swirling, fiery red potion that radiated heat even through the enchanted glass. Liquid Fiendfyre. It had taken him years to develop it.

"_Peregrinari,_" he said, tapping the dot on the map labeled _Scabior_, and the parchment rippled, taking on a slightly darker tint. Riddle tilted the vial and poured a single drop onto the map. Where it ought to have consumed the parchment—and the entire house—at once, instead the potion simmered for a moment, then bled through the surface, apparently absorbed into nothingness.

Shacklebolt would have a difficult time identifying Scabior with his skin melted off.

And Hermione would know, he hoped. Riddle was not one for leaving things up to hope or chance, but he could not help the surge of regret he felt at the thought of causing her even a moment's worry. But if she was clever—and she was, Merlin knew—she would realize what was going on.

There was only enough left in the vial for one other dose. The potion was viciously difficult to brew. Riddle scanned the map again, looking, searching, and at last he spotted his target.

Esher's dot was moving about in a small London house, possibly his own. Riddle smiled, picturing the satisfying sight of terror swelling in Esher's eyes, and cast his spell again. He poured his last drop of potion onto the map and said farewell to Esher. It was unlikely anyone would miss him. He had let Esher go with his life, previously, because he suspected that killing him might launch an inquiry that would land Hermione in trouble. But he had seen inside the man's head to the gruesome thoughts that dwelt there. Thoughts aimed blackly at Potter, but increasingly, too, at Hermione. This he could not abide.

Sirens interrupted his reflections and Riddle looked up to see Muggle automobiles with revolving lights on their roofs pulling into the driveway of the house. So the wailing he had heard earlier had been some sort of alarm. A pair of policemen advanced across the front lawn with their hands on their belts, resting against their guns. Riddle flicked his wand to gather up the map and wondered...

He could kill them, just to be safe, but... he did not _want_ to. It disturbed him to think of killing people who had done him no wrong. His body had been rebuilt by Hermione's goodness; her mercy flowed through his veins, poisoning him.

They were only Muggles. And yet-

Riddle Disapparated. He came out in an empty park and sat on a bench, waiting. He would know when Hermione fell asleep. They were connected: he could feel the warmth of her thoughts in the back of his mind, always, though he could not tell what she was thinking.

He had waited fifty years in the pages of the diary, dormant and barely conscious but still _there_. He had mastered the art of waiting. But waiting for Hermione was different. Every moment that he could not reassure her was a moment she might be spending in despair.

An owl darted across the moon and flapped its way down to Riddle, dropping a letter into his lap.

_Riddle,_

_You've pulled quite the disappearing act. I wondered what you were waiting for, but perhaps the girl is not such a feeble excuse after all. I hope that you will not attempt to curse me too grievously for offering some unsolicited advice: If you want to keep her, you must accept that you will not be able to keep everything else. You must choose one or the other. As for Scabior, I should have known you would dispose of him without delay. If you require a replacement, my men have recently apprehended a group of former Snatchers who publicly beat a woman—a Squib, what else?—to within an inch of her life and kidnapped her children. I think that would do nicely._

_I shall hazard a guess that the next phase of your plan involves entry into the Department of Mysteries. In this your main obstacle will be sheer numbers. Not even you can take on the full force of the Ministry in the light of day, you will agree. Thus your best option will be the upcoming memorial celebration at Hogwarts school on the thirtieth of June. Every witch and wizard of significance in the country will be in attendance, leaving the Ministry unguarded. This especially if they still believe you to be dead._

_Incidentally, one of my men is a former follower of your alter-ego, who has noticed that the mark on his arm seems to have morphed. He is quite disturbed by it, and cannot fathom what it means. The chains: a symbol that their lives still belong to you? I ask merely for curiosity's sake._

_By now you will, I presume, have taken possession of the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. I must warn you that destroying it would be a most grievous error, as it would severely impact my ability to assist you in the future. Before you fly into a killing rage, I will emphasize that this is not a threat. It is merely a statement of fact. The Hat is linked to my own well-being in ways that I shall not put into writing, but may explain to you in due course._

_I may, however, now pull a disappearing act of my own, to preserve certain interests in which I have invested a great deal of time. As ever, I remain,_

_Your faithful servant,_

_The Viper_

Riddle read the letter over a number of times and began to formulate his plan. The Department of Mysteries... It was uncanny the way the Viper had unraveled his intentions so rapidly. He might be forced to do something about the old man. Yet, again, his skin prickled at the thought. The Viper had served him faithfully.

Suddenly he became aware that Hermione's presence had dulled. She was asleep at last. Closing his eyes, he delved into her mind and found himself, strangely, in a sea of impenetrable blackness where sound and light were extinguished. He could not find her until he walked for some time, frowning. And then she was there in front of him, but somehow far apart as well. She was kept from him by layers and layers of some membranous substance.

"Hermione?"

His voice sounded muffled in his own ears, and Hermione did not stir. He could barely see her face.

"HERMIONE!"

This time she moved her head by a fraction.

Her response was faint, as if she was speaking through a long and narrow tunnel.

"Tom."

"Yes?"

"Tom, how could you?"

"What?" He shook his head, confused, and could not quite make out her response.

She seemed to be drawing further away from him. His own movements were sluggish and impeded by some unknowable force that made him feel powerless in his own body: not a sensation he was comfortable with.

At last she repeated, "You died. How could you?"

At once it struck him. Dreamless sleep. They had given her a dreamless sleep potion, which accounted for his difficulty in reaching her. That must mean that she had been upset. She truly did believe him to be dead.

For a moment Riddle was tempted to drop everything, give it all up, and rush to her side to comfort her, Ministry be damned. It was a dangerous wish, unexpectedly alluring, and he felt his hands tremble as he teetered on the verge of indecision. He could be near her in moments.

But giving up was unthinkable.

"I didn't die, Hermione," Riddle said forcefully.

"... Did... Saw your body..."

"You saw _a_ body."

"... _Not_ dead?"

"Not," he agreed, his need to convey the truth to her almost physically painful.

"Prove it."

With a tremendous effort of will Riddle burst through the clouds of resistance surrounding her and kissed her, tangling his tongue with hers and winding his hands into her hair. Her eyes flew open and she looked at him, amazed.

"Tom." Her voice was growing even fainter. She was fading away.

"Yes?"

"Don't be dead."

"I promise," he said, but the potion had worn off and she had woken up. Hermione was gone.

* * *

**A/N:** Ahaha I just couldn't resist the temptation to torture Avery one more time! Also, um, cell phones were already a thing in 1999 right? Those big clunky nokia ones? Let's say sure.


	24. Chapter 23

**A/N:** Happy father's day! So it's been pointed out to me that there are several bastardizations of canon happening here concerning the use of Polyjuice potion and Tom's map of Britain. Some of it is intentional and will be explained in later chapters. Some of it is just me having written most of this story at 4 am. I promise to work on fixing it, and thank you to everyone who let me know! Also, thank you to reviewers, **NY GE Pyromaniac, TheLightningScar, TheNewCompanion, Atlantean Diva, maximumtrouble10, mh21, LCB, CheshireCat23...** This is a bit of short chapter but it worked and I hope you'll forgive me as I've been an updating fiend lately. There are three more chapters left after this Aaaasdklgjah;dsldgk (Last keysmash I ever do, promise).

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

Hermione sat bolt upright in her little cot in Harry's office and smelled Pepperup Potion simmering in a glass on the desk next to her.

"HARRY!" she cried, looking all around. She heard footsteps echoing down the corridor and Harry's face popped into the office, drawn and concerned.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked. "We gave you enough for twelve hours—"

"Tom's not dead."

"_What?_"

"He's alive. He can talk to me when I'm dreaming, he contacted me."

"He just—Hermione it must have just been a dream. His _body's _in the next room."

"Harry, _please_, I'm not stupid."

Harry looked at her carefully, evaluating the state of her sanity. Hermione knew she had scared him a little. After identifying the body she had thought belonged to Tom, she had sat in the Minister's office, straight-backed and glassy-eyed, refusing to speak or to move or to acknowledge anyone. She had been numb, her insides emptied out, her mind a soothing blank, and she had been grateful for it. Because if she had allowed herself to think about it for even a moment, she would have collapsed from the pain.

At last Harry punched his hand with his fist. "I knew it was too easy." He waited, arms crossed, appearing to expect something. "So? Where is he, then?"

"I don't know. I couldn't get him to tell me."

"But—What the hell is he visiting your dreams for, then?"

Hermione looked at Harry calmly, saying not a word. He blanched and turned away.

"Who's body did we examine, then?" he asked quietly when he had recovered himself.

"I don't know." Hermione frowned. "And it'll be impossible to perform any diagnostic spells now the skin and veins have been disintegrated and the wand's a pile of ash. We can't even use _Priori Incantatem_. How did that happen, anyway? What did Kingsley say?" She had not exactly been in a state to pay attention in the private meeting Kingsley had called with her and Harry.

"He said he thought the skin had melted because Tom's body was rebuilt with untested magic. But what he wanted to tell us was that he thinks there's a leak somewhere in the Ministry. I assumed it was Esher, but he's disappeared. They suspect Riddle offed him, too."

"A leak?"

"Well, someone who's controlling operations from outside. Because it seemed too simple: Esher was the one who claimed to have killed Riddle, but there were no witnesses. He had to have gotten outside help."

"But now we know that it wasn't Tom."

"You'll have a job convincing the Ministry of that based on a dream. Anyway I think the theory has some merit. Riddle and Grindelwald and this Viper character... It's all connected somehow, I can feel it."

"Then we have to get them all together to work things out." Hermione vanished the Pepperup Potion impatiently and stood up. "Have you gotten in touch with the undertaker who says he knows what became of Grindelwald?"

"Yeah." He rolled his eyes. "But first I've got to write my speech for the Memorial celebration at Hogwarts. The Ministry's insisting on making me the guest of honor... And you can worry about finding Riddle."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

Harry gave her a look that was equal parts shrewd and annoyed. "Figure it out, Hermione. I think you can find a way."

As he turned to walk away she bit her lip.

"Harry! Don't you think we ought to alert the authorities, let them take care of it?"

Harry glanced at her, and for a moment they were both still. Then, quite abruptly, the pair of them burst into nervous, uncontrollable laughter.

"Good one," Harry chuckled.

Just like the good old days. Hermione smiled as he left, but there was a tightness in her chest. She had not felt such a tangible doom closing in since the days when Voldemort had been alive.

* * *

On the night of the thirtieth of June Hermione stood in front of a mirror in her tiny Hogwarts office, filled with nothing but exasperation at the prospect of spending an evening fraternizing with her coworkers rather than looking for Tom. Harry had been getting exactly nowhere with the undertaker for the past three days, and Tom had failed to contact her again. She was becoming so distracted that she had awarded her students' last round of essays 'Outstandings' all around, even though several of them were hardly above 'Troll' level.

She slipped on a sober black dress that fell all the way to her feet, cringing at the thought of the distasteful festivities that awaited her downstairs. The Ministry liked to think that it was taking a positive stance by electing to celebrate the lives of the lost rather than mourning their deaths, but Hermione suspected that it was merely an excuse to throw a lavish party to impress upon one another how well off they all were now that the war was over. People needed distracting.

Sure enough, when she arrived in the Great Hall she was greeted by the unpleasant sight of bright gold banners, a band, and a sea of House Elves wending their way between the guests carrying trays of Champagne. Hermione spotted Ron across the Hall, hand in hand with Katie Bell, and was momentarily frozen in place. He spotted her and smiled warmly, offering her a little wave that she returned, beaming. She and Harry had agreed, to their reluctance, not to tell Ron about the debacle with Tom. He would likely do something rash in response, and Ginny would find out, and Tom had given Ginny enough grief for a lifetime. Though it felt odd to team up with Harry without him, Hermione was above all grateful that Ron remained safe.

Something caught her eye and she looked to the man standing a little to Ron's left. He was turned away from her but Hermione could have sworn that he had been staring intently at her a moment before. She had only a glimpse of his jaw line and the golden hair falling across his forehead, but he seemed vaguely familiar somehow. He was tall, and impeccably dressed, and for a moment Hermione felt a powerful compulsion to run forward and speak to him.

A hand closed around her wrist and tugged her behind a pillar.

"I've just gotten a letter," said Harry quietly, glancing all around to make sure they were not overheard. "From Draco Malfoy."

Hermione's eyebrows flew up.

"He says his dark mark has changed," Harry went on.

"Changed?"

"Yes, it sounds as if quite a few people are panicking about it. He says all the Death Eaters' marks have done the same that he can discover. The skull's gone, and it's been replaced by _shackles_, Hermione."

Hermione paled. "Tom."

"It seems that way, yeah," Harry agreed. "You've got to speak to him again, Hermione. We've been getting _nowhere_—"

"I know. I've got an idea. Can you keep Slughorn occupied for a little while? I've got to get into his Potion stores."

"I suppose," Harry grumbled. "He's been wanting to introduce me to some of his new students. Don't be too long."

Hermione nodded her thanks and dashed out of the Hall, sprinting her way down the corridors to the dungeons. Once she reached the Potions classroom she unlocked Slughorn's private study with magic and tore through the cupboard where she knew he kept vials of the most basic potions to hand. Finally she fumbled over the one she had been looking for: a light sleeping draught.

Only three drops. Enough for ten minutes of sleep at the most. Hermione sealed the door shut behind her and let three drops fall onto her tongue. She had just enough time to place the vial hastily back on its shelf before she collapsed against the stone floor, deep in sleep.

She had been careful not to choose a dreamless sleep potion, and thus Hermione found herself standing in the very same dungeon, aware that she was dreaming and desperate for her ploy to work.

"TOM!" she shouted angrily, her voice reverberating against the walls until it was nearly unintelligible. "Answer me, damn you. TOM!"

"I like when you scream my name."

"Where have you _been?_" She looked around at him and, for once, spared no time to marvel at the way his eyes burned into hers, the way he moved with effortless elegance across the dungeon classroom to place his hands on her waist. She was shaking with anger.

"You keep a man locked in the Chamber of Secrets for a month, love, he's going to want to get out a bit."

"You changed the Death Eaters' marks."

"Ah, yes. Your old friend Avery is looking a bit worse for wear these days."

Hermione closed her eyes momentarily and prayed for patience. "Why are you making things so difficult?"

His eyes sparkled. "You like difficult. That's why you're here."

Enough was enough. Hermione restrained herself from glaring and slid her hand under Tom's sweater, grazing her nails under his chest before slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. Merlin help her, he owed her an answer and she was going to get one. Tom let out a harsh breath. Feeling rather uncertain, and very unlike herself, Hermione made a stroking motion with her thumb that earned her a strangled gasp.

"Where are you, Tom?" she asked, repeating the movement. She could feel her own cheeks flushing; she did not particularly want to stop.

"Wherever I want to be," he bit out in an uncharacteristically ragged voice. "Perks of faking your death, Hermione. Ministry's no longer on the alert."

"Why did you change the marks?"

She leaned into him and he took a moment to respond.

"Since you ask _so nicely_," Tom muttered after a pause. "I... did it to send a message to all of them. A warning."

Hermione gasped in spite of herself. "You're _rallying_ the Death Eaters?"

But when she looked up he was smiling as implacably as ever.

"That's not going to work, you know."

Hermione stepped back and crossed her arms, thoroughly annoyed. She should have known. Tom looked at her in bemusement. She had never seen him fail to smooth out his features into indifference before.

"I didn't say to stop," he told her hoarsely, arching an eyebrow.

According to her mental clock, her time was almost up. She forced the corners of her mouth to pull up in a cynical smile.

"Shame," she said, and woke up.

Her knees shook as she stood in the dank dungeon room. That had been profoundly awful. Hermione could not explain to herself exactly why she felt so unsettled, except that she had not wanted to have to manipulate answers out of Tom. She had made a conscious choice to begin trusting him, to stand by him, and now something awful was brewing, and there was nothing she could do to stop him from hurtling towards the void.

"Harry," she muttered. Right. She had to warn Harry. Hermione refused categorically to believe that Tom was planning some sort of dark uprising. But if he was calling for the remaining Death Eaters, Harry needed to know. She bolted back up the stairs to the Great Hall, where several couples had taken to the dance floor, and scanned the crowd, but Harry was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone off to prepare his speech.

And then Hermione froze on the spot as all the air whooshed out of her lungs, because she had glanced in the direction of an archway leading out of the Hall and seen him. There was no way she could be mistaken. She would know him anywhere; she would know him even if she were blind. Tom was _here_.

He walked past in a flash, moving on towards an adjacent corridor, and Hermione took off after him in a run. She just glimpsed him rounding a corner in the direction of the kitchens and ran faster.

_No, no, no, no..._ He could not be here now, of all places, of all times. Every qualified witch and wizard in Britain was here.

Out of breath and terrified, Hermione caught up to him in a dark, unused classroom.

"Tom!" she cried, reaching for him, but he ignored her, tugging his arm away from her grip. Something was wrong. He felt ice cold.

Hermione heard a stifled sob from the corner and lit her wand to examine the premises. Her mouth fell open in shock: Ginny was backing against a wall, cursing under her breath and close to tears. She was attempting to aim her wand at Tom, but her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold onto it.

"Tom, stop!" Hermione exclaimed. He did not even acknowledge her presence.

Ginny closed her eyes for a moment in deep concentration, and suddenly, before she could utter an incantation, Hermione understood.

"_R—Riddikulus!_" Ginny shouted, waving her wand frantically. Nothing happened, and Tom continued to advance. "Riddikulus! _Riddikulus!_"

At last the Tom-Boggart tripped over the hem of his robes. Hermione let out a very forced laugh and he vanished with a pop. Ginny slumped against the wall, her eyelids fluttering shut for a moment, before she looked back at Hermione and said, "H—Hermione, you have to get out of here!"

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, raising her wand higher and shifting unconsciously into a defensive stance.

"I believe I can shed some light on that," said a cool voice, and the blond man Hermione had spotted in the Great Hall strode into the room, beaming at them in a way that made a cool prickle of terror race down Hermione's spine.

_Now_ she recognized him.

"My apologies for the theatrics," Grindelwald went on without a hint of a German accent. "A Boggart did seem the simplest way of getting you away from the party without causing a stir."

"Let Ginny go," said Hermione, her voice shaking as she attempted to wrap her mind around the fact that she was speaking to a thousand year old man.

Grindelwald smiled wolfishly at her. "Now, now. I have been so starved for pleasant company. You would not take the lovely Ginevra away from me, would you? She has been such a great help tonight."

"You can keep me instead."

"Hermione, no, get out of here!" Ginny yelled, but it was too late. Grindelwald was nodding approvingly.

"Indeed," he said, bending low to kiss Ginny's hand. "You may go. Thank you ever so much for your cooperation."

"I'm not going without Hermione," Ginny snarled.

Faster than either of them could follow, Grindelwald's wand was in his hand and he was pointing it at Ginny. She began to move rigidly towards the door, obviously unable to control her legs.

"It'll be all right," Hermione whispered as Ginny passed her. "Don't come after me. Tell Harry Tom's rallying the Death Eaters."

A quick, frightened glance, a small nod, and Ginny was gone. Eyeing Hermione appraisingly, Grindelwald took a seat on one of the desks. He was graceful, elegant; he emanated an aura of power. Hermione could see how he had become so influential. Her throat was very dry.

"What do you want?" she asked. She had never felt so very much alone, and yet she prayed with all her might that Harry would not look for her. These were dire straits. Apart from Voldemort, history had perhaps never seen such a dangerous wizard.

"An interesting question, Hermione Granger. Allow me to pose one of my own, in the interest that we get to know one another a little better. Is it true you have managed to ensnare Tom Riddle?" Hermione threw him a withering glare and he chuckled. "I shall take that as a yes. You must be a terrific lover, my dear girl. I confess myself impressed."

The spell sprang from her lips without conscious thought and a streak of red light shot from her wand as she attempted to stun him. Grindelwald blocked her effortlessly and his smile widened.

"_Crucio_," he said so softly that his voice sounded like a caress, and Hermione was taken by surprise and had no time to dodge the curse.

It was a hundred times worse than she remembered, a million. Red-hot blades doused in poison were lacerating every inch of her skin and her bones were being razed to ash and her veins were pulsing in agony. She could her hear own screams echoing off the walls but every movement of her lips was renewed pain and despair and she would never escape this pain, and she was clinging madly to her desire to live, close to slipping—

The pain ended and she lay panting on her back on the floor, tears leaking from her eyes in spite of her.

"Let us try that again, shall we?" said Grindelwald silkily. "My congratulations, Miss Granger, on your conquest."

"You won't break me," Hermione told him hoarsely. "I've been tortured before. Try all you like."

A momentary look of untempered fury crossed Grindelwald's face, but he replaced it at once with a smile and reached down to prod her head up with his foot.

"I believe I shall," he murmured. "But first you are going to come with me."

"Where?"

Grindelwald flicked his wand so that she was levitated upright and stroked the side of her face.

"To the Department of Mysteries, dear girl," he said.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, I've drawn out this Grindelwald crap long enough. Next chapter I swear you're getting answers, and not LOST style answers, real ones. I'm quite excited for you guys to see the next one. It'll be up on Tuesday hopefully, since it's already finished. Cheers!


	25. Chapter 24

**A/N:** I wonder will it ever stop hailing in June this is not my idea of fun not at all... Anyway, I'd like to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to recommend "Daddy Dearest" by ImmortalObsession if you're looking for an amazingly well written victorian Tomione AU. (Thanks maximumtrouble10!) Seriously drop what you're doing and go read this fic right now-Well, once you're done reading and reviewing this chapter of course ;) So! Many thanks to reviewers: **jodileighcullen, LCB, maximumtrouble10, TheLightningScar, Atlantean Diva, NY GE, Pyromaniac, IDanceToForget, Kou Sun'u, demisses, zypherblaze, skipbeataddict, fanfictionswhore...** I'm so sorry I haven't answered all of you yet. I've just been super busy with, like, this new margarita maker I got by mail order and stuff... There is a moment in this chapter that I had huge amounts of fun with and that I've been excited to post all week. And it's not even Tomione related. You'll probably know it when you get to it, but we'll see.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

Hermione stood on a familiar stone dais and watched the phantom fluttering of a tattered veil hanging from a crumbling archway. She had not understood why Harry was drawn to it before. She had not heard the voices. Now she could hear them beckoning to her, half-remembered whispers that evoked at once joy and home and solitude.

"You're going to follow me out of the school without making a peep," Grindelwald had warned her, and to her despair she had not found the energy to resist. God help her, she could not bear to bring more torture upon herself. So she had walked with him past the Great Hall and out the oak front doors, marveling at the simple brilliance of his method. There were, of course, no photographs of Godric Gryffindor, only very old paintings that did not give any true impression of how he would have looked. No one would have associated Grindelwald with him: why would they have done when Gryffindor was meant to have been dead a thousand years? Besides, people developed a funny blindness about unpleasant things that did not immediately concern them. Even now, a young Gellert Grindelwald—he looked to be about thirty-five, perhaps the age when Gryffindor had created the Sorting Hat—had wandered into a Ministry soirée without meeting resistance. Grindelwald had not risen to power until slightly later in life, and had never been so well-known in Britain. No one spared him a second glance.

She wondered how many times he had repeated this process throughout history. How many infamous wizards were really copies of this same man? The purely academic side of her was enthralled. Yet Hermione also felt a deep sorrow. Gryffindor was meant to have been a beacon of goodness and tolerance. It was he who had fought against Slytherin to keep Muggleborns in the school. Where had things gone so very dark?

Once outside of the boundaries of the Hogwarts grounds Grindelwald had Apparated her directly to the Ministry, which was nearly deserted. He must have planned it just so. The night of the Memorial was a perfect opportunity. And she was a Ministry employee and he a handsome, well-dressed young man, so no one had even attempted to stop them from riding the lifts down to the lower levels. Hermione had maintained no illusions that the magical barriers surrounding the door to the Department of Mysteries would pose an obstacle to Grindelwald, and sure enough with a few complicated wand movements the door had sprung open for him.

"Tantalizing, isn't it?" said Grindelwald appreciatively, gesturing towards the veil. Hermione did not look at him. She wondered if she was going to die, and began, against her best efforts, to run through a mental reel of her loved ones. She had done the same nearly every day towards the end of the war.

Tom. Impossible, incandescent, irreplaceable Tom. No one had ever altered her view of the world or of herself so much as him.

"I helped build it, you know," Grindelwald commented as though Hermione was hanging, rapt, on his every word. "The year was 1916, I believe. Dreadful times, had to leave Russia in rather a hurry. The Department of Mysteries provided a nice refuge before I moved on to Germany. We had been attempting to understand the imprints known as ghosts."

Harry and Ron, the constant companions of her youth, her first real friends. Immature and hurtful at times, and also wonderfully loyal and carefree. Her chest ached with how very much she loved them.

"You can hear them, I presume?" Grindelwald asked.

_Can you_, she wondered? Could he, perhaps, hear Ariana Dumbledore lurking just beyond the veil? Or was he too far gone for such human concerns?

Her parents, angry and befuddled and, eventually, grudgingly understanding. They still jerked in apprehension every time they glimpsed her wand.

"How did it happen?" she asked, because she absolutely could not help herself. "How did you, Godric Gryffindor, create a Horcrux? _Why?_"

She still refused to look at him, yet she could practically hear his fiendish smile.

"It was an accident," he told her, and Hermione whipped around in surprise. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, and she could only imagine what it must be like to glimpse the past across a chasm of centuries. "A duel gone wrong. The young man had insulted Rowena's honor, and I was called upon to defend her. I meant only to subdue him, teach him a lesson, but he was vicious, relentless. Things got out of hand. It was only after he lay dead at my feet that it occurred to me I could obtain penance for my actions: from my crime could spring a solution to the question that had been plaguing me for some years. Who was to watch over Hogwarts when I and the others had gone? Who was to sort the students? And thus was born the Sorting Hat. But of course, magic of this kind alters one over time. I was not the same after that. The others—even Salazar—were too weak to see that it was for the better. They did not have the spark of greatness. Cowards all."

Hermione was astounded, _floored_, by this information. Without thinking she murmured, "Slytherin didn't mention that."

"Oh, have you spoken to him?" Grindelwald asked, one eyebrow raised in vague amusement and disbelief. Then his smile returned. "Ah, but of course. The stone of resurrection."

"It's gone," Hermione told him quickly, praying for her voice to remain steady through the lie. "So are the wand and the cloak. You shouldn't bother to look for them."

Grindelwald chuckled darkly. "I no longer have any designs on the Hallows, Hermione. May I call you Hermione?" He did not wait for an answer. "When one lives as long as I have, one develops the ability to learn from his mistakes."

"Then what _are_ you after? Why are we here?"

"I thought you would be glad of our little excursion, Hermione. We are soon to join up with your dear Mr Riddle."

She gasped. "Your plan is to challenge Tom?"

_Oh no. No, no no._

"A challenge is a duel between equals. This is rather more of a confrontation between a king and a pawn. The elusive Riddle was hardly a concern when he was parading himself as the so-called Lord Voldemort. A vulgar tyrant. His reign was sure to be short lived at best. Of course, this new insurrection of his is of a subtler variety. I do commend him for adapting to the times; that has always been difficult. Still, he has always been quite... adept at gathering followers in a way that has escaped me since—Well, no matter, it shall not continue for much longer."

"You can't beat him. You have no idea what he's capable of."

"Ah, Hermione, how inadequate," cried Grindelwald, suddenly overcome with mirth. "We are speaking of a man who hated his own nature so much that he devoted his life to exterminating it; a Half-Blood bent on killing Muggles! Do you think that a pile of corpses is the mark of a man's strength? And you, who were meant to be such a beacon of light. Harry Potter's greatest ally. Does it bring you a thrill to have a murderer inside you? You are a peculiar creature, dear girl."

Without warning Hermione felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. Yes, she had confronted the idea that, even if his soul was now intact and his actions more or less on the level, Tom had killed his father and grandparents. Yes, in her blackest moments a voice in her head had told her that it did not matter, that in truth, from the moment she had met him, none of it had mattered.

But it _did_ matter, very much, as did the other voice in her head that sounded by turns like Harry, like her mother, like a younger version of herself.

"Anyone capable of love deserves a chance at redemption," she said as steadily as she could. "If you had paid attention to Dumbledore you would have learned that. You would know that he was the better man."

"Albus!" Grindelwald exclaimed fondly. "His love was such a cloying thing, you've really no idea. A constant intrusion. Love is a fool's downfall, Hermione, do try to understand that. Witness good old Albus: he would have died for me in a heartbeat, there is no doubt about it. Of course, that sort of foolhardiness is what I am counting on tonight."

Hermione closed her eyes. "That's why I'm here. As bait for Tom."

"Precisely, clever girl!" He beamed at her. "I take pride in the knowledge that you were in my House."

"After today, I think I'd have sooner been in any other House but yours," she replied, bile rising in her throat.

"_Crucio!_"

Again, Hermione was caught unawares, and before she knew it she was thrashing on the floor, screaming her throat raw as wave after wave of searing agony ripped through her. It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and yet her body still ached. She suspected it would only get worse the more often she was hit with the curse.

"Now, this is not the way to accept a compliment," said Grindelwald sternly, looking genuinely angry with her.

He was waiting expectantly, waiting for her to say _thank you_, and her mind revolted against it but her nerves were still on fire, and any minute he would raise his wand again and she could not stand it—

Abruptly Grindelwald lowered his wand and looked upward.

"Ah, Aleister, is everything in place?"

Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position though her limbs were sore and weak, and looked up to see the Viper standing at the top of the staircase that circled the room to the antechamber above. His eyes met hers and for a millisecond he looked reluctant, as though her torture was distasteful to him. Then his features smoothed out and he nodded briskly.

"Excellent. And all on schedule?" asked Grindelwald.

"Riddle should arrive in a matter of hours."

"_You?_" Hermione cut in, incensed. "You were meant to be on Tom's side!"

"It is unbecoming to maintain such schoolgirl fantasies," Grindelwald snapped. "A man's true allegiance must be to power alone. I shall return shortly, Aleister. I must go and dispose of the watchwizard who carries on rounds through the lower levels. And when all this is taken care of I shall arrange a transfer—you are looking pale, my good man. In the meantime, do keep an eye on her, won't you?"

Grindelwald flicked his wand, and Hermione was yanked to her feet by invisible hands. Another flick and her wrists were bound by shackles somewhat similar to the ones Tom had worn all those months. Grindelwald prodded her up the stairs with his wand and into the stone antechamber, where he enchanted the chain of her shackles to wind itself around a stone pillar so that she could not escape.

"Do try to avoid frowning so very much," he told Hermione before sweeping away. "You look so terribly old."

Hermione waited until she was certain he had left before rounding on the Viper, who was watching her regretfully from the corner.

"I don't understand!" she burst out furiously. "All this time you've been genuinely helping Tom. But... you've been helping Grindelwald too." She frowned, then her heart fell out of her chest. "You've been playing them against each other! You—You want them to finish each other off!"

The Viper did not even smile. He nodded gravely.

"Men like Riddle and Gryffindor are prey to an insatiable thirst for power, Miss Granger. The downtrodden, those on the lowest rungs of the ladder—Squibs, Muggleborns—are always those who end up paying the price. Though great dark wizards do not necessarily cherish blood purity or otherwise bigoted views, though they may espouse them mostly for show, we both know that the men they employ to do their dirty work along the way are a brutal lot. The Riddles and Grindelwalds of the world will eternally raise armies in their quest for supremacy, and those armies will eternally violate the basic rights to life and dignity of those deemed less than worthy for circumstances they cannot help. Those fellows you brought me not so long ago, Thurkell and his gang—Grindelwald's, of course. I thought you knew then, but of course their motto threw you for a loop: _To rise and rise again_. You thought they were speaking of Riddle, not Grindelwald, as the slogan may be applied to both. You caused great inconvenience that day by preventing them from retrieving the Hat so that Grindelwald could transfer some of his life to me. But in any case, those men were a prime example of the sort of scum that is given free rein under supposed _Dark Lords_." He looked directly into Hermione's eyes, seeming to seek her understanding, her approval. "I am doing the world a favor."

"That's why you told Grindelwald to use me as bait?" Hermione asked scathingly. It had to have been his doing. Nothing else made sense.

The Viper made no attempt to deny it.

"You are best off far from the center of the action tonight," he told her impassively. "The foundations of our world, our history, are about to be rocked."

* * *

Riddle stood unmoving at the center of a clearing, his eyes fixed on a familiar headstone. Little Hangleton. How his path always seemed to carry him back here, no matter what. There was an unpleasant sort of symmetry to it: he did not want to associate himself with anything to do with Voldemort. And yet he had wanted to go for the maximum effect. He was certain that calling them all back here would do the trick.

Avery cowered by a stone angel nearby, trembling irritatingly in the silence of the night. Riddle had touched his mark, summoning the others, nearly five minutes ago. Any second now...

There was a resounding _crack_ as a cloaked man in a dark mask appeared several yards away and strode forward, tentatively, to take his place on the outer edge of some imaginary circle. Ah, the admirable potency of fear. Three others followed almost immediately behind the first man, taking their places at odd intervals around the circle. Riddle had checked the order of the placings with Avery ahead of time, and so he knew that these must be Rowle, Selwyn, Pankhurst, and Urqhart. Next came Shafiq, Flint, and Goyle. There was a particularly loud crack a little further away from the others, followed by a faint scuffling and a drawn-out pause, and then the final cloaked figure joined the group. Malfoy; the younger Malfoy, judging by his stature. Now, that was bound to be entertaining.

The circle was more than three quarters empty, with all its previous occupants safely imprisoned in Azkaban. These were the remains, the rabble who had slithered their way out of captivity by whatever means necessary. A pitiful lot. Still, it was a better turnout than he had expected.

"Death Eaters," Riddle said in ringing tones, amused by the shudder of fear that swept through the circle at his words, "through the years we have met under many circumstances, both good and bad. I have expected loyal service and, in many instances, I have been... disappointed."

Malfoy shuffled ever so slightly, and Riddle hid a smirk at his discomfort. They were all trembling, all certain that he meant to torture or kill them at any minute. He waited for the familiar impulse to do just that, the savage roar in his head that had demanded blood and cold limbs and glassy eyes for as long as he could remember, but to his amazement it did not come. Hermione's insufferable mercy was still singing through his blood.

For now.

"Today, however," he went on after waiting sufficiently long to unnerve them even further, "I see before me the last bastion of the faithful. Those who feared not to answer the call, as you all were sworn by oath to do so many years ago. I see before me my most loyal servants."

There was a faint aura of surprise now, overtaking the fear. Perhaps he was laying it on a little thick.

"No doubt you must be asking yourselves how I have come to achieve this miracle, to stand her before you. All will be explained in time, once you have proven yourselves as faithful as I believe you to be. This is the service I require of you who are loyal: to cast off your masks and to stand with me as honest men, unwavering in your allegiance. I trust you will all do this, or incur my _displeasure._"

Riddle strode up to Rowle before any of them had time to protest, and with a flick of his wand, removed the man's mask. Rowle fell to his knees and began to mutter words of allegiance, proffering his thanks, his utter devotion. Useless babbling. Riddle moved on to Selwyn. One by one he removed their masks, taking in the aged, weather-worn faces. War had not been kind to the Death Eaters.

At last he arrived at Malfoy, and his blood began to boil. He could still remember Hermione's screams, echoing through her memories, as she was tortured in the Malfoys's home. For this, there would be no mercy.

He twitched his wand, removed the mask, and the man looked up. Riddle's heart stopped.

It was not Malfoy.

"I've already got Malfoy in a safe house, in case you're planning retaliation," said Potter pleasantly.

No words. His mind was a blank, careening through a sea of shock. He had to recover his senses soon, because it was Potter. Potter who kept cropping up, unfailing, relentless. It was almost... admirable. Or would have been, were it not so infuriating.

Riddle raised his wand and, in one swift, fluid motion, cast a wide-ranging stunning spell that took out every one of the Death Eaters. Once they lay unconscious on the ground he faced Potter, who was shorter and yet, somehow, radiating confidence.

"Speak," he said tonelessly, certain that a killing curse would once have been on the verge of bursting from his wand at this massive, this impossible defiance. _Explain. Now. Everything._

"I Apparated here with Malfoy in side-along, then sent him back."

"_Because?_"

"Because you're bloody difficult to find. I can understand the frustration now, trying to track someone who's made themselves impossible to locate." He smirked. Some joke Riddle was missing. "Anyway, this is a little disappointing. You couldn't do better than this lot? I dueled Avery and won when I was fifteen. What do you plan to do with them?"

"Oh, I plan to run about the country murdering and pillaging everything in my path," Riddle snapped, his knuckles tightening around his wand. "Torturing infants, if at all possible, would be an added bonus."

Potter looked at him for a long time, expressionless. That disconcerting stare, so reminiscent of Dumbledore. Riddle wondered... To kill him, to simply leave, or to hear him out? Surely there had to be some way he could spin this to his advantage.

"You faked your death, you got rid of Esher, and you waited until tonight to convene the Death Eaters," Potter enumerated at last. "You went to a lot of trouble to get the Ministry off your tracks, in other words. Which must mean your plans involve the Ministry. It must be important, too, for you to be here instead of out looking for her."

"_What?_" said Riddle sharply.

Potter cocked his head to the side and his eyes widened by a fraction. "You don't know, do you? Hermione's been kidnapped."

Absolute, all-engulfing panic. Followed by rage, white-hot, devouring his insides. He was momentarily blinded by it, incapacitated, as fear and anger raged a fierce battle in his mind and anger won out. He would tear the entire world apart stone by stone to get her back. Better yet, he would tear her captors limb from limb. He would make them scream in agony for a hundred years. A thousand years. Until the end of time. Her face was all he could see, all he could think of. She needed him.

"WHO?" he bellowed, and Potter flinched. He had not meant to yell, but his baser faculties were beyond his control for now, until he got her back, pristine, unharmed.

"Grindelwald," said Potter sourly. There was fear in his voice too, hidden by a thin layer of bravado. Potter could be an ally in ensuring Hermione's safety, there was certainly that. There was simply no getting around the fact that he had to be a capable wizard, what with his defeat of Voldemort.

In a moment Riddle's panic began to abate and he managed to regain control of himself. He needed to be flawless if he was to get her back. No mistakes.

"Which is quite a coincidence," Potter went on, "since I happen to know exactly where Grindelwald will be tonight."

"How is that?" asked Riddle sharply. Some form of conspiracy? Potter was surprising him more and more.

"I had an informant," said Potter evasively. "But it'd take you a while to torture it out of me, and Hermione doesn't have time. So before I tell you more you're going to tell me why you've gathered up this sorry lot."

Now they were back to imbecility.

"I've also passed Occlumency training for the Auror Office, finally," Potter added with a faint smirk.

To break into his mind would be a tedious and lengthy process then, though there was no doubt Riddle could do it. Easier simply to compromise, because Hermione was waiting. Nothing else was important.

He could not tell Potter what he meant to do with the Death Eaters. He could not say it out loud. It was too fragile, too important. So instead he delved _into_ Potter's mind—a useful trick, the latter did not see it coming—and planted the images there, step by step, _showing_ him the plan. When he withdrew Potter's mouth was hanging open and his eyebrows had flown up in shock.

"You—That's not—It isn't possible," Potter stammered. "It'll never work. There's no way."

"One way or the other," Riddle replied, "I am going to get Hermione back. If you come as well, you understand what will happen."

Potter clenched his jaw, breathing heavily. After a moment he nodded.

"Then where are we going?" Riddle snapped. Slow, they were going too slow.

Potter's face was grim. "The Department of Mysteries."

* * *

**A/N:** 1916 was the year Rasputin was killed. Just a fun fact I decided to throw in. Next update on Thursday. Cheers!


	26. Chapter 25

**A/N:** Many thanks to those who reviewed, **IDanceToForget, GoldenAura, maximumtrouble10, NY GE Pyromaniac, TheLightningScar, MidniteCurse4Eternity, LCB, Atlantean Diva...** There's one more chapter left after this. I'll try to have it up on Saturday but it's giving me a bit of trouble, so no guarantees. Very psyched to hear what you guys will have to say after this one...

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

Hermione tested the leeway the shackles allowed her while the Viper stood in the corner, watching her. As soon as he looked away she reached up as if to scratch her head and pulled a pin from her hair. Thank Merlin she had decided to wear it up in a complicated bun for the Memorial. Grindelwald was arrogant. He had charmed her restraints so that they could not be cast off by magical means, but she was willing to bet that he had not accounted for Muggle methods of escape.

"You know, when I was fourteen I spent part of the summer at my friend Ron's house," she began in a casual tone. "We had tickets for the Quidditch World Cup, you see. It was a lovely place, all ramshackle and full of life."

The Viper surveyed her questioningly, and Hermione felt cautiously optimistic. If she could just keep him distracted long enough...

"Things were often a little... uncomfortable between Ron and me when Harry wasn't around, though," she went on. "We were really young, we didn't know how to confront our feelings. So for several days I found myself a little lonely. Ron's sister Ginny was great fun, of course, but I was more accustomed to the company of boys by then."

Her fingers inched towards her wrists behind the pillar, twisting the pin this way and that.

"Then one day Fred and George—Ron's brothers; he has a lot of brothers—seemed to take an interest in me. I didn't realize it at the time, but they were probably trying to throw their mother off their tracks. They spent a lot of time tinkering with illegal inventions in their room. Anyway, I was always quite fond of them even though I disapproved of nearly everything they did, so I spent the day in the Weasleys' shed with Fred and George, learning these neat little tricks they said could help me get around Molly, their mother, if I wanted to sneak into Ron's room incognito for whatever reason. Silly, of course, but it was quite fun."

The Viper was frowning, clearly worried that she might have been concussed in her struggle with Grindelwald. The head of the pin slid into the lock of the left handcuff and she felt a series of clicks.

"The most useful thing they taught me was the least flashy of all. It was a Muggle trick—their father is obsessed with Muggles. They showed me how to open locked doors without magic. All it takes is a hairpin and some patience."

The Viper stood a little straighter, alarmed, but Hermione had already opened the lock. In a flash she was on her feet, lunging across the room to shove the Viper against the wall. Grindelwald had taken her wand, but the Viper had a wand of his own, useless to him as it might be. He was remarkably strong for such an old man, but Hermione was fiercely determined. She felt a bright flash of pain in her right forearm, but she managed to swipe the wand from his belt and stepped back triumphantly, pointing it at his throat.

"Miss Granger, I should advise you not to move," said the Viper, panting.

Hermione ignored him and dashed for the door. She could hear voices and footsteps approaching and, for a panicked moment, thought that Grindelwald had returned. But then she recognized the speaker and her heart did a tremendous somersault.

It was Tom. He was instructing someone to stay quiet. By the sounds of the footsteps there were a _lot_ of people with him. Hermione moved forward to race down the stairs and greet him, and that was when a blinding, paralyzing pain engulfed her from head to foot.

It was nowhere near the agony of the Cruciatus curse, and yet somehow it was more terrifying, because she could not _move_. She was convulsing, choking, and as hands closed around her shoulders to drag her back into the antechamber she turned to see the Viper smiling ruefully at her, as if to say _I told you so_. There was a tiny, jade green snake slithering up his arm back beneath his sleeve.

With her last reserves of strength Hermione attempted to scream, certain that Tom would hear her and come running. But her voice had deserted her. The wand fell from her hand and clattered to the floor, and she was once more pulled into the shadows.

"A powerful paralytic venom," the Viper whispered apologetically in her ear. "Try not to struggle, it will only make it worse. I haven't poisoned you, girl."

He picked up his wand, placed it on the ledge of the little window facing down on the stone archway, and propped Hermione against the far wall of the antechamber so that she could see down to the dais but those below could not see her.

"Now watch," said the Viper. "Watch what unfolds, and tell me this is not for the better."

Down below the door burst open and Tom entered the room, followed by Avery—Hermione cringed inwardly at the sight of him—and a number of other Death Eaters and... Harry.

The Viper nodded in satisfaction and Hermione realized that he must have lured Harry here with the promise of delivering Hermione so as not to draw Tom's suspicion directly. Harry. He was here, he was chatting with Tom, he was walking around quite naturally as if he meant to be there. His voice carried up the stairs and Hermione's heart pounded harder with each word he spoke.

"... Scabior's body would have kept your appearance," Harry was saying while the other men looked around apprehensively and tried to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. "Why bother disfiguring him with Fiendfyre?"

"_Priori Incantatem,_" said Tom impatiently, waving his wand and casting what looked like a non-verbal _Homenum Revelio_. Hermione felt the spell press in on the antechamber, but Grindelwald must have warded it against detection. "His wand could have identified him, had it not been burned to cinders along with his skin."

"But if it was so easy for you to maim Scabior and kill Esher from afar, why didn't you use the same method to off Dumbledore? And _me?_"

Tom's face grew a shade more expressionless and Hermione could tell that he had tensed at the question.

"I did not kill Esher," he told Harry, who gaped at him. "Though he may as well be dead. You were there the day I lost my memories in seventh year, weren't you, Potter? Voldemort didn't know he had the liquid Fiendfyre at his disposition. But even if he had, it would not have been the death of anyone. Esher is weakened, in a great deal of pain, and unlikely ever to work for the Ministry again, but he is not dead. The spell I used is a variant of the Protean charm. It causes the Fiendfyre to lose some of its power over great distances."

Harry looked slightly sickened, but after a moment he said in a wondering tone, "So you haven't actually killed anyone since you arrived in this time?"

"It would appear so."

Hermione could seldom remember feeling such a turbulent mix of emotions at one time: shock, relief, fear, a bizarre sort of pride. And above all an overwhelming impatience for the paralysis to lift so that she could warn them that Grindelwald was on his way. If anything were to happen both to Tom and Harry Hermione did not think she could survive it. Ever so slowly, her toes began to tingle as the feeling returned to them.

"Then torturing Esher was just a bit of fun?" said Harry distastefully.

Tom stopped his examination of the room entirely and faced Harry, unleashing the full power of his glare on him. It was a credit to Harry that he did not flinch or back away.

"I doubt you have much of an aptitude for Legilimency, Potter," said Tom smoothly. His most dangerous voice. "But I've seen Esher's thoughts. He was once a burgeoning dark wizard, desperate to join Voldemort's ranks. Voldemort rejected him. _That_ is why he remains so bitter. If you had heard the vicious edge to his thoughts concerning Hermione, the way he anticipated putting the _filthy Mudblood_ in her place through unspeakable torture, you might have been inclined to do the same."

Harry had blanched. Tom turned his back on him and pointed his wand at Avery. The tingling had risen to Hermione's knees now. She did not move a muscle, did not give herself away.

"Check all the secondary doors," Tom commanded, and Avery scurried to comply at once. "Potter and I will see to the antechamber upstairs—"

The end of his sentence was drowned out by a tremendous _bang_ as Grindelwald burst through the door behind them, grinning madly and spreading his arms wide.

"Tom Riddle!" he shouted with absolute relish. His delight at having made a striking entrance increased when he caught sight of Harry. "And Harry Potter as well! My, my, two for the price of one. This meeting has been such a very long time coming!"

Tom faced him slowly, drawing in a deep breath, and Hermione could see the heady sense of purpose that preceded a burst of astounding magic building around him. Harry had raised his wand as well, and Hermione knew that the image of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle standing side by side, united against a common enemy, would remain branded in her memory forever.

She was beginning to regain feeling in her fingers. The Viper thought she was still paralyzed.

"Potter tells me I have the choice to address you as Grindelwald or Gryffindor," said Tom, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, well, I have also gone by Albert in the past. Marcus, Charles, Cassius. Even Marianne once." Grindelwald winked. "But of course, you are not here for me, are you? You've come for the lovely Hermione. Feral little thing, isn't she? Fights tooth and nail."

For some reason Tom glanced surreptitiously at Harry, and Hermione thought he looked, for a moment, a little unnerved. Then the look was gone and Tom was brandishing his wand, and Hermione could feel all the way up to her face again, and many things began to happen very quickly.

Tom sent a killing curse at Grindelwald, who dodged it gracefully, sending back a flash of blinding silvery light. Several more curses streaked back and forth between them, almost too fast to follow, and then both wizards lowered their wands, finding themselves at a temporary stalemate.

Without warning Hermione leapt forward and snatched up the Viper's wand from the windowsill.

"I shall offer Tom Riddle's head as a reward to the first man who kills Potter!" announced Grindelwald.

All hell broke loose. As Hermione jumped towards the window a pair of duels began below, more ferocious than any she had seen since Molly Weasley had killed Bellatrix Lestrange. She covered her head with her arms as she struck the window, which shattered, and tucked in to land on the narrow walkway at the top of the stairs, rolling into a standing position. The stone archway was illuminated by the constant flashes of clashing spells. Tom was dueling Grindelwald with such abandon that the pair of them were no more than a blur. Harry was dueling _all seven_ of the others. Only Avery had slunk away into the shadows unobserved.

Hermione aimed a curse down at Selwyn, who fell forward, dragging Goyle down with him. Both Harry and Tom spared a millisecond to look up at her in relief before re-engaging in their duels. Grindelwald attempted to take the opportunity to catch Tom by surprise, but the latter parried him with his back turned. Tom had a definite edge over him in skill, but Grindelwald was by far the more experienced of the two, and he seemed to anticipate each move before it happened, so that Tom was unable to finish him. And Harry was surrounded. As she ran down the stairs Hermione did not know where to intervene first.

A stray killing curse from Flint hit Avery unexpectedly, and Avery crumpled. In the moment of suspended shock that followed Harry managed to stun both Flint and the tall dark-haired wizard next to him, and now only three remained, and Hermione hit one of them with a well-placed _Petrificus Totalus_. She could not cast a spell at Grindelwald, fearful of hitting Tom.

"Hermione, look out!" Harry exclaimed, and suddenly she was seized from behind by Rowle, who shook her roughly and jabbed his wand into her windpipe. She tried to squirm to the side to give Harry a clear shot, but Rowle's hands were digging painfully into her arms, holding her in place, and he began to utter a curse.

Tom's eyes connected with hers as he revolved with Grindelwald, and his face filled with blank terror. He deliberately turned his back on his opponent to jump into a position from which he was easily able to shoot a killing curse at Rowle. Hermione's captor fell down dead but his arms were still clamped around her and she fell with him. As she struggled to disentangle herself Grindelwald hit Tom from behind with a spell that caused him to yelp and sink to his knees.

Hermione turned in a panic and saw Harry hesitate for a millisecond. She could guess what he was thinking: how he could possibly _save Tom Riddle's life?_

Then it was too late and there was a deafening bang and Hermione was certain that her heart would explode into a million pieces. But both Tom and Grindelwald were thrown into the air, still dueling as they spun. Hermione managed to fight her way to her feet, and without consulting one another she and Harry pointed their wands at Grindelwald the moment he hit the ground, while Tom was still in the air and clear of him.

Grindelwald was immobilized, but the force the dual spell threw Tom off his balance so that he fell face first against the floor and hit his head with a sickening crack. For a moment he did not move and Hermione's heart pounded, but Harry gasped behind her, and she realized what she had missed. Who, exactly, had sent Grindelwald and Tom flying?

A man appeared before them, with a face so monstrous that for a moment Hermione mistook him for a ghoul or a banshee. His skin had been melted beyond recognition so that his features were barely recognizable. His face was a map of angry, glistening blisters and scar tissue. Esher had found them: his hatred must have lent him strength. His gait was lumbering and his every breath was labored, but without missing a beat he sent a killing curse straight at Hermione.

The jet of green light missed her by millimeters, but hit the edge of the stone dais behind her and sent rubble flying in all directions. A large chunk of rock hit her in the back of the head and Hermione collapsed, stars blooming across her field of vision, and attempted to orient herself.

"Hermione! _Hermione!_" Harry shouted in alarm as Esher advanced on him inexorably.

Hermione opened her eyes blearily and saw Tom do the same from his position on the ground across from her. Their eyes met and she saw relief and exultation flood into his gaze.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" growled Esher in a terrible, rumbling voice. And Harry could not use _Expelliarmus_ to protect himself this time, and he was too close to dodge the spell, and Hermione sprang to her feet to jump in front of him and take the curse, but she was bowled aside in midair as a heavy object collided with her.

She landed painfully on her back just in time to see Tom slash his wand through the air, levitating a body across the room and throwing it in the path of the jet of green light before it could hit Harry. There was a moment of stunned silence during which Harry stood there, dumbfounded, alive, his eyes darting between Tom and the dead man at his feet.

Esher snarled a madman's cry of defeat and raised his wand again, but Tom made the same slashing motion, this time sending an enormous piece of the rubble from the stone dais sailing straight at Esher's head. The latter fell down and did not stir again.

Too many cataclysms in a short time. Too much. Hermione could not stop trembling. The last conscious Death Eater was attempting to scramble out of the room, and without turning Harry sent a stunner after him. They all were breathing as though they had run fifty miles.

The first thing Tom did was to stand and walk up to her, placing his hands on either side of her face.

"Are you all right?" he asked very quietly, his eyes searching hers. "Have you been hurt?"

"I'm fine," said Hermione shakily, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

She had never done this in front of Harry, or anyone else for that matter, but she was far beyond caring. They had survived. Tom was safe, Harry was safe. She had made her choice, and she had chosen _right_.

When they broke apart Harry had looked away, but very quickly he muttered, "Quick thinking."

Tom acknowledged him with the barest hint of a nod that looked more like an irritated twitch of the head before striding over to the Viper's body, dead at Harry's feet. Hermione's stomach lurched when she saw the old man's eyes staring glassily at the ceiling, empty at last of that vital spark that had so unnerved her. In all the chaos she had not even seen him coming down the stairway, nor could she understand what he had been hoping to achieve by it. Unable to defend himself magically, he had been an open target. But perhaps he had been tired of being denied the right to actively contribute and participate.

"He wanted to make his mark," she said in a wavering voice. "He really did believe in his cause, and he was willing to do anything for it."

"He sold you out to Grindelwald," said Tom coldly, levitating the Viper's body in the direction of the pile of unconscious Death Eaters without a backwards glance.

"No, wait!" said Hermione. As Tom watched her with raised eyebrows she ran up to the Viper and tucked his wand firmly into his grip, crossing his arms against his chest so that the slender strip of wood that had meant so much to him rested against his heart. It seemed none of them knew what to say, so Hermione merely reached out and closed his eyes, and turned away from the Viper. The presence of Grindelwald, unconscious but not at all dead, was becoming an issue.

It was Harry who spoke up at last, in a hesitant yet blunt sort of voice. And he addressed himself to Tom.

"You can't do this," he said, meeting Tom's eyes directly. "It goes against every law of magic, every principle. It's not natural."

Hermione's heart, already overwrought, began to race once more.

"Go ahead then, Potter, and do please try to stop me," Tom replied, turning his wand on Grindelwald.

"You don't have to kill him," said Hermione quickly, wondering if it was true. Grindelwald had a Horcrux, he was a madman, he was a danger to everyone. But he had proven that he was not invincible, and even that he could be imprisoned. Nurmengard could hold him again.

Tom gave her a faint smile that was half a grimace. "I know."

It pained Hermione to look at him, with his hair in disarray and his robes streaked with dust. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms and legs around him and taste his lips on hers again, but now was not the time.

Harry was moving jerkily, stowing his wand in his robes and approaching them. He exchanged a glance with Hermione, as if to say _Here we are again, then_, and spoke again to Tom.

"I'm not telling you that I won't allow it," said Harry slowly, pointedly. "I'm telling you it can't be done. Believe me, if it could, I would have done it myself. People have been trying for centuries."

"People have a tendency to be worthless fools," Tom returned, levitating Grindelwald onto the stone dais, directly by the foot of the veiled archway.

Harry shook his head and turned to Hermione. "I'm going to alert Kingsley about all this. Might take me a while to find him, though. He might not find out for some time." He paused pointedly to make sure Hermione had gotten his meaning.

She nodded, her mind reeling to keep up.

"I think you've got, say, an hour," Harry went on. He jerked his chin in Tom's direction. "Don't let him fly off the handle when it happens."

"Let him—What? When what happens?"

"You'll see," Harry muttered, grasping her arm bracingly before sweeping from the room. Hermione rounded on Tom, questions piling on top of questions, but he circled his arm around her waist and led her up a set of shallow stone steps onto the dais.

"We aren't going through this again," she warned him sternly. "You need to tell me what's going on."

"You remember what the Viper said the first day you met him?" Tom asked. "About evaluating cost?"

"He said only sacrifice pays for peace," Hermione recited at once. The words had struck her as having a ceremonial flavor, as though carefully chosen.

Tom inclined his head. "Yes. I was intending to use the Death Eaters. The world would be well rid of them, not that the world deserves such help. But a millennium old man will do infinitely better."

"Better for _what?_"

"Payment. One soul for another. Of course, I know very well that it isn't as though there's a bartering system in place. It takes a much greater sacrifice to undo what nature has done. That's why Grindelwald will be perfect. He's had centuries of life; he's _bursting_ with it."

Understanding was filtering slowly, reluctantly, through Hermione's mind, but she fought against it. It was madness. They had learned it again and again. Hadn't those hard fought lessons been enough?

"I'm only sorry to spare the Death Eaters," said Tom acerbically. "But perhaps they'll be needed too. You never know."

"You're going to _resurrect_ someone?" Hermione managed to exclaim once she was over her initial shock. "You really weren't planning to start the Death Eaters on some sort of uprising all this time, you just wanted human sacrificial lambs? You can't!"

"You don't know the ancient magic I've uncovered, Hermione," said Tom serenely. "Every book says the same: It's never been done. But there's a great deal that's never been done, isn't there? Before I met you, no one had ever returned to life after the destruction of their Horcruxes."

"No," Hermione insisted. "You can't because it's _selfish._"

For the first time Tom looked perturbed, even angry. "Selfish, is it, that I was never allowed a single instant of true satisfaction from the moment I was born? Selfish to want to right those wrongs?"

"Yes! _Everyone_ has experienced loss. That doesn't give us all the right to start calling back souls that are at peace. If we all did it the world would be overrun. That's why it's not allowed, and it can't be done. That's why the Deathly Hallows were just a mirage."

"The Deathly Hallows were a myth that happened to become embodied in three commonplace objects imbued with abnormal power. The veil is another thing entirely. There had been rumors about it for decades even when I was at school. Can't you hear them, Hermione?"

She could. The whispers never stopped beckoning, slithering along her skin and bringing back the mental reel of loved ones. Except that these were all dead. Dumbledore, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Dobby, Fred. She could hear them all.

"Tom, spare yourself and _don't_ do this," she pleaded. But Tom ran a hand gently along the side of her face and then faced the veil. Hermione's heart sank. The allure was too strong. He could not give it up.

It seemed to her that magic swirled and gathered around them like an electric charge as Tom began to chant. She did not recognize the incantation, but suspected it would be found only in the oldest and darkest of the tomes stored in the Hogwarts library's restricted section. There was something _wrong _about the words that fell from his tongue; the sound made her shiver. Tom pulled what looked like a pile of rags from his pocket, and Hermione recognizes the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. He placed it carefully on Grindelwald's chest, where it rested in a pitiful heap, unmoving.

A haze of murky gray light encapsulated Grindelwald's body as Tom's voice grew louder, and the former stirred awake, looking around him uncomprehendingly. But he was helpless, immobilized.

_Such a waste,_ Hermione thought despairingly as his face turned to a grimace of hatred.

As Tom continued to chant Grindelwald's body was lifted off the floor and drifted towards the veil. The whispers were growing louder and Hermione could have sworn she saw shadows moving just beyond the archway. Tom's eyes closed in rapture as the magic around them swelled, and Grindelwald slipped past the veil.

A pulse like a sound wave on a frequency too low for human ears burst out from the archway and Hermione was swept off her feet. She landed softly on the stone floor beneath the dais and looked up, dazed, to see Tom facing an oncoming shadow. A silent wind was blowing his cloak about him and he was illuminated by the same unnatural gray light that had surrounded Grindelwald.

Hermione sat up, dazed, to watch as Merope Gaunt stepped out from behind the veil.


	27. Chapter 26

**A/N:** So for those of you who were wondering whether Tom could have the girl and keep the power, this chapter is your answer. (Hint: He's Tom Riddle, he can do whatever the hell he wants.) This story is now at an end (for real, I'm not adding a part three :P) and I'm a little bummed I won't get to play with these characters anymore, but I really enjoyed reading all your lovely reviews. Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with me through both parts of this fic. **IDanceToForget **(You can't _go_ to Pigfarts, it's _on Mars!_)**, Lobeira, TheLightningScar, LCB, NY GE Pyromaniac, angrypixels, Kou Shun'u, Credit18, JillyBean09, skipbeataddict, TheNewCompanion...** A hundred thousand people were evacuated from my town and my house flooded, and I still got this chapter up on time, that's how much I love you guys. All the best forever, you beautiful people.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

There was no recourse, nothing to be done, so Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment and allowed the memories to wash over her. Memories of Tom, from the first day they had met, the day her future had hung on a knife's edge.

The way he had looked at her as he introduced himself, as though he were both a predator and a king.

The first time he had kissed her in the snow and ash in Hogsmead, when she had yet to realize that she had already surrendered to him body and soul. Surprisingly gentle and yet coiled to strike at any moment.

The night he had seen her memories of his future and she had realized, with a shock that uprooted every belief she held dear, that he did not want to go down that road.

The day she had lost him and the day she had gotten him back.

It had all been leading to this very moment, and she had failed to see it. Tom had lost something anchored deep within the day he had been born, and he had never recovered. His entire existence had been built upon this absence, and she had thought that he did not even know it.

Merope Gaunt lumbered gracelessly towards him, and Tom's entire being shivered at the sight of her. She was a pitiful sight: lank hair, pallid skin, and eyes pointing in opposite directions. She was solid and substantial, as Salazar Slytherin had been when Hermione had recalled him from death, but a familiar noxious gray light was seeping out from beneath her fingernails, through her ears, behind her eyes. She stumbled a little and Tom twitched as if perhaps he meant to catch her, but she flinched away from him.

"Tom?" Merope breathed. Hermione's heart was beating out a wild symphony of sympathy and apprehension.

"His son," Tom replied in the smallest voice Hermione had ever heard him use.

"Look... just like your pa."

"I..." Tom trailed off. He was trembling. Hermione wondered whether he wished to reach out and touch his mother, and whether he feared that she would vanish if he did. Merope was staring at her feet in what looked like a reflexive action in times of stress. She shook her head, looking confused.

"Just like him." Her eyes darted up to Hermione, sitting below the dais. "You don't... leave like he did. You be a man."

Tom swayed on the spot. At last he said briskly, "Let's go."

"Go?" Merope repeated vaguely, glancing back over her shoulder at the veil. Hermione shivered.

"Yes. You can come with me. We can go anywhere we want."

Merope began to nod. "Just like your pa..." Hermione wanted to scream at them to stop, but in Tom's volatile state she was not sure he would even hear her.

Tom stretched out his hand at long last to place it on his mother's shoulder, and a second before their skin touched he collapsed and began to scream and convulse. His eyes bulged out of his head and he beat his fists against the ground. Merope stood immobile before him, watching with faint curiosity as her son twitched and shouted his throat raw.

"_Tom!_" Hermione ran up the steps three by three and threw herself over Tom's chest to still his thrashing. Merope turned and began to inch back towards the veil.

"NO! NO STOP!" Tom bellowed, his hands tightening painfully around Hermione's arms as his mother receded. "_Come back, stop—Argh!_"

Hermione could not understand what was happening to him. He was practically glowing, the picture of vitality, and yet he was screaming in agony. Harry had told her that Tom had not even screamed when subjected to the Cruciatus curse. His distress was so immense that she reached for Merope to draw her back, but the latter could not be held. Her hand slipped through Hermione's fingers as easily as water. Her skin was ice cold.

Merope Gaunt drifted back through the veil without sparing a glance for her son, and in her place appeared an impossibly aged man with a face sunken in folds upon folds of wrinkles. His gnarled hands clutched at the edge of the archway as he pried himself out, fighting against an invisible wind that seemed intent on throwing him back. His wand was clutched between his teeth, and under his arm was folded the Sorting Hat.

Tom had ceased convulsing and his fingers were digging so forcefully into Hermione's arms that she feared her bones would break. His eyes were half closed and he was not moving. Grindelwald threw himself out from behind the veil and cackled at them.

"What did you _do?_" Hermione asked over the roaring of the invisible wind blowing around them.

But the ghastly, ancient Grindelwald did not answer. He scurried away, stooped and shuffling, and soon disappeared from the room. And Hermione could not give chase because Tom was still holding her. It was not until Grindelwald's footsteps faded away that the wind died down, and Tom fell back against the stone floor, unmoving.

* * *

The crisp December air bit at Hermione's exposed skin and she wound her scarf more tightly around her face, huddling closely against Harry. The ruins of a Muggle warehouse loomed behind them, blackened and charred, but out in the open the snow was a dazzling quilt of pristine white. Nearby a stone angel stood sentinel over the rows of graves beneath their feet.

They came here sometimes to glimpse Merope Gaunt's final resting place, contemplating the headstone in silence and thinking, perhaps, of the consequences of the unfortunate woman's choices, or of the countless, faceless others resting by her side. They had buried the Viper here, too. Hermione rather thought he would have liked the idea of being watched over by an enchanted angel, and the whole place thrummed of magic.

"He knew it wouldn't work, I think," said Harry, breaking the silence abruptly. "Merope. He didn't want to believe it, but he knew he couldn't get her back."

But Hermione shook her head. "He knew but he buried it. He really thought it would work. He spent months planning it out."

"Where is he now?"

Hermione looked at him shrewdly. "I'm not allowed to know, am I?"

"Yeah, but I suspect you do anyway."

"Argentina, I think." She smiled a little. "Are you going to start tailing him?"

"I've got my own leads," Harry replied indignantly, but he grinned back.

That evening Hermione sat alone in the sitting room of her new flat with a candle burning, watching the clock hands inch ever nearer to the midnight hour. When twelve o'clock came and went she breathed a shaky sigh and raised a glass of Champagne to herself. Tom had never been one for sentimentality. The dawn of a new millennium would have struck him as an absurd occasion for a celebration.

Hermione raised her glass instead to her impressive new promotion at the Ministry, the spacious office she had managed to lease for S.P.E.W. in Diagon Alley, the anti-discriminatory legislation she had passed through the Wizengamot. She drained her goblet and gazed out the window at the snowstorm raging outside. She would never have Harry, Ron, and Ginny over for tea or dinner at this flat. They had invited her to the Burrow, but Ginny's offer had been tinged with unease. Perhaps another year.

One o'clock in the morning came and went, and then two o'clock. When the hands neared three she finally got up, lost in thought, to make her way to her room.

There was a bang at the door.

Hermione faltered and very nearly fell to the floor before she could manage to rush over and answer. And there, looking thoroughly windswept in a dark traveling cloak, his hair dusted with snow, stood Tom.

There was an interval of tumultuous silence, accompanied by the distant screeching of the snowstorm, and then Hermione threw her arms around him and kissed him with abandon. Her fervor was such that he seemed momentarily taken aback and swayed in her doorway, but almost at once he responded in kind. Kicking the door shut behind him, Tom carried her inside while he nipped at her throat and murmured over and over how he had missed the way she tasted, divine.

"I hate it when you vanish," Hermione said through clenched teeth as Tom tore the buttons unceremoniously off her blouse.

"Occupational hazard," he mumbled in response, and she might have continued to berate him if not for the fact that he was doing things with his hands that made her eyes roll back in her head.

She did not know quite how they ended up in the bathroom, except that it was closest to the front door and they certainly could not have made it all the way to her bedroom. As she lay back against the cold porcelain of her enormous claw foot bathtub, Hermione's vision was inundated with the white tile of the ceiling and walls, clean and smooth and unblemished. It felt harsh to her somehow; unforgiving. Tom lowered himself above her, all obsidian darkness and sharp angles, and this was what she craved. She always forgot, in his absence, just how blissful he could make her feel; the coil of all-consuming fire in her abdomen that made stars explode before her eyes.

When they lay entangled together, panting and exhausted, Hermione reached out to pick up his robes, which he had strewn over the edge of the tub. A small smirk flitted across her face.

"What, no embroidery?" she asked. "No displaying your official emblem? You'd look so dashing in purple..."

"I don't work for the Ministry," Tom replied quietly, sounding bad-tempered.

Her grin widened. "Right. Of course. What would be the right word, then? 'Independent contractor' sounds a little mundane—"

"As far as they're concerned I don't even exist, you know that love. I've been stricken from all records—too much of a liability. The Department of Mysteries operates almost independently from the Ministry, and they're content to profit from my work. I don't _report_ to them. They report to _me._"

He toyed with a strand of her hair with long, elegant fingers before continuing, and Hermione grew rather distracted as those fingers began to trace a line up her back.

"Besides, they're hardly privy to all my work. I choose to allow their participation when it's beneficial to me."

"And was Argentina beneficial?"

Tom trailed his fingers around to her ribs and looked deep in thought for a moment. "I didn't find him. But I uncovered something rather fascinating."

This, coming from him, was an astronomical pronouncement.

"You recall how Grindelwald escaped?" Tom asked lightly, his thumbs brushing over her stomach. Hermione felt very warm, but she nodded.

"He sent a charm to incapacitate you from beyond the veil, somehow, and it nearly killed him to do it," she said. The events were burned into her memory.

"Ah, it did seem that way, didn't it?" He leaned down, speaking very close to her ear. "But you also remember the arrangement our late friend the Viper had with Grindelwald?"

"Yes, Grindelwald used the Sorting Hat to transfer years of his life to him and—" Hermione broke off and frowned. "_Merlin_... You don't mean...?"

"An extremely painful and taxing process, it transpires," Tom confirmed very quietly, his lips nearly brushing her ear now. "That is how he incapacitated me, and why he came out of the veil an old man. I believe he gave me over a hundred years."

Hermione shivered. "How did you find out?"

"A tribe of Argentinian wizards were foolish enough to attempt some rather intricate dark magic on me. They'd heard rumors about who I am. A form of vampiric curse to steal one's essence, or some such rubbish. The powers Grindelwald unintentionally bestowed on me caused their attempt to backfire spectacularly."

"Did—Did they die?"

She felt Tom's lips spread into a slow smile against her throat. "No, oh no. Though I daresay for a time they wished they had."

The blinding whiteness of the tiles made Hermione want to close her eyes. "What happened to them?"

"They pledged their allegiance to me," said Tom, sounding deeply amused. "I have no use for such moronic assistance, but they were persistently and shockingly loyal. So I set them to some useless attempts at ensnaring Grindelwald. I doubt anything will come of it. Still, I may find some use for them in time."

"And if they do find Grindelwald?"

Tom lifted his head and stared directly into her eyes, radiating ferocity.

"When I have him, I'm going to make him suffer more excruciatingly, and for much longer, than anyone in history has suffered before."

Hermione hugged her arms to her chest and stared at him. He looked blazingly alive.

"You said the _powers_ Grindelwald bestowed on you," she said carefully. "There were more than one?"

Tom's hand came to rest at the small of her back and he looked at her intently.

"When you were four years old," he whispered, "you planted a cherry tree in your backyard and dreamed all night of the ripe red fruits you'd get to enjoy when it grew. You'd just begun to read but you had yet to uncover any satisfactory books on botany, so you didn't understand that it could take years for the seed you'd planted to reach full bloom. When it failed to grow after three days you went to bed in tears. And the next morning a full grown cherry tree stood behind your house. Your parents were baffled. They made cherry marmalade for weeks."

Hermione's eyes were round as Galleons and she gaped at him. "How do you know...?"

"The Sorting Hat was the most accomplished Legilimens in the history of the wizarding world, love. It could see not only one's current thoughts, but the summation of all one's emotions from the moment of their birth." Tom's nostrils flared. "The Hogwarts board of governors has made attempts, through the Department of Mysteries, to contact me and engage my help in continuing to sort the students. But they can damn well sort themselves. Forcing a particular house on them never seemed to give them an ounce more sense. Salazar Slytherin would weep if he could see the state of—"

"Tom!" Hermione interrupted shrilly, unable to help herself. "This—This is incredible! Does the Department know all this, about the extra years of life and the—the... You can perform Legilimency to the extent of—"

"They've no business knowing until I want them to know. The possibilities I've unlocked..." His eyes turned sly. "For instance, I can tell that if I place my hand exactly _here_—" Hermione whimpered, and Tom smirked, "you'll sound just like _that._"

Hermione could not help the feral noise that escape her throat. Reaching up, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him.

* * *

For her twentieth birthday he was away in Monaco, following an urgent lead that Grindelwald might be in the area. He sent her a pair of golden manacles as a gift, and Hermione was by turns furious and resigned. He was away for over five weeks, and these Hermione spent working furiously and tirelessly at the Ministry, having finished her term at Hogwarts months ago and gotten every one of her students through their NEWT's with flying colours. There began to be talk around the office to the effect that she should consider running for a seat on the Wizengamot. She sometimes wondered, in the blackest, most hidden parts of her heart, whether someday Tom might find the chase, the thrill of power, too enticing, and not come back.

_Just like your pa. You don't leave like him. You be a man._

Harry returned to England from his own sojourn a day before Tom did, erupting into the Atrium at the Ministry and causing a veritable riot amongst reporters. No, he informed the press again and again, he had not located Grindelwald. Yes, he was closer than ever. No, he was not eloping with the daughter of Monaco's Minister for Magic. Hermione fought her way through the throng to greet him and he whispered in her ear, "Dimitri and Everett are going to owe me a mound of gold soon."

Hermione rolled her eyes. A sort of casual rivalry had sprung up between Harry and Tom over which of them would be the one to capture Grindelwald. Those few members of the Auror Office who were aware of Tom's continued existence had actually started a betting pool. When Tom had first heard of it he had asked Hermione who she had bet on, and she had smiled mischievously and winked at him, refusing to answer.

Tom descended upon the Atrium in much the same fashion as Harry, but his face was hooded, and not a soul noticed his arrival. It was a stupendously arrogant move, and Hermione was torn between laughter and horrified reproach. When he entered her office he threw off his hood, sealed the door behind him with magic, and strode up to Hermione with hungry eyes, ignoring her shriek of surprise. He bent down to kiss her, but she crossed her arms and stayed stone-still. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Did you like my birthday gift?" he asked.

Hermione scowled. "What, the passive-aggressive reminder of the time you wore manacles by _no fault of mine?_ Oh, so charming."

Tom's face was an inscrutable blank but she thought she saw an amused light dancing just behind his eyes. "Hermione. Those were worn by the House Elf in command of the care of the royal family of Monaco—wizards, as it turns out. I was able to pull an amusing little trick and free her. Her name is Lettie, and she's led all other Elves in the family's employ—seventy-five of them, all told—in a mass defection. I've offered to put them in contact with you."

"I—What—You—!" Hermione subsided into incoherent splutters.

She hated it when Tom got that smug look on his face.

* * *

Sometimes Hermione would return home to find Tom in her sitting room, staring into the fireplace with a thousand years of misery and fury in his eyes. These aftershocks of the pain of reconstituting his torn soul were growing fewer and further between, but they frightened her nonetheless. In the throes of the worst of them he would be unable to speak, to move, even to look at her. He would be a phantom carved from stone. And Hermione, because she knew not what else to do, would simply put her arms around him until it passed.

Returning from Luna Lovegood's engagement party one evening, she opened her door, felt the familiar chill of Tom's unease, and was certain she would find him unresponsive again. But instead he was lounging in a chair at her kitchen table, his arms folded behind his head a little too casually, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ sitting on the table next to him. The moment Hermione glimpsed the headline, she understood.

Because a fortnight ago a hulking, filthy man had come to her door while Tom was away, and he had struck her across the face the moment she had opened the door. Before Hermione could recover her senses he had forced his way inside and delivered a swift kick to her ribs.

"Where's your murderer of a boyfriend, eh?" the man had snarled at her, brandishing a blunt knife in one hand and a wand in the other. "Hope you've said your goodbyes, you little bitch, 'cause you won't be seein' him again."

Hermione had understood with a wave of nausea that this man meant to kill her. He was no master tactician like the Viper; he was merely an unsophisticated thug who had gotten it into his head to use her to send a message to Tom. The rumors of Tom's continued existence, after all, could never be entirely eradicated.

She had overpowered him fairly easily once she had managed to pull out her wand, and had been conjuring a levitating stretcher upon which to transport him to the Ministry when Tom had arrived for an impromptu visit. His eyes had turned incandescent with rage as he had run a thumb gently over her split lip and the bruises across her jaw. And as she had looked on in horror, casting ineffectual spells to attempt to stop him, Tom had strangled the man with his bare hands.

She had not spoken to him for six days. Not because she opposed his defending her against thugs, but because of the look in his eyes when he had done it. It had been almost joyful.

He had sulked, to the extent that it was possible for Tom to do such a thing, and refused to show a hint of regret. Hermione slept no more than three hours each night, tossing restlessly to and fro in a bed that felt both constricting and much too large.

Now, looking down at the newspaper on her table, something in her stomach twisted.

_Muggleborn Couple Killed, Branded Mudbloods By Unknown Attacker._

"That's—That's awful!" Hermione exclaimed, feeling bile rise in her throat.

Tom watched her carefully, his expression guarded, and she knew that he was waiting for her eyes to narrow in suspicion. Waiting for her to ask him if he'd had anything to do with it. Hermione took a deep breath.

"I can't imagine who could do a thing like this anymore, can you?" she asked him pointedly. "I hope they catch them."

His expression remained perfectly impassive but the muscles in his arms relaxed visibly.

"Hermione, Hermione," he sing-songed, pulling her into his lap, and she kissed him.

The next day he began to teach her how to fly. Hermione could hardly believe it at first. To her surprise, flight alarmed her much less when she was not dependent upon a broomstick or Thestral to keep her in the air. Tom laughed quietly at her shrieks at first, and grew increasingly impressed when she mastered the skills he taught her in a remarkably short time. As they soared over treetops he told her of his plans, his designs to plumb every aspect of magic as no wizard had ever done before. Not the Hogwarts founders, not Merlin, not Albus Dumbledore. Through the Department of Mysteries he was investigating the possibility of acquiring multiple Animagus forms. Of inducing controlled Lycanthropy without a werewolf bite—Hermione was vehemently opposed to this particular venture—and harnessing the power of Apparition known only to Elves. She came to understand, slowly, that sharing his innermost thoughts was a completely foreign concept to Tom. But he told her nonetheless.

She did not tell anyone that she knew how to fly. Not even Harry. It was her secret to share with Tom and her chest glowed with it each time he came back to her.

* * *

"Where are we going? Really, Tom, enough. Let me see."

"So impatient." Tom's breath tickled the back of her neck, but he did not release her yet. He guided her across a stone floor through what felt like a series of doorways. At last he uttered a quiet spell and Hermione's blindfold dissolved.

She gasped.

"I can't be in here!" she protested indignantly.

He had brought her right to the heart of the Department of Mysteries, for Merlin's sake! They were in a small room, comfortably furnished, with stone walls and an impossibly high ceiling. She could not begin to guess what might transpire here.

"The youngest member of the Wizengamot, alive or dead, is afraid of a little trespassing?" he mocked her quietly. Hermione scowled.

"The Wizengamot's been... a little difficult." What with all the 'old duffers,' as Ron put it, who did not yet understand that she had valuable ideas to contribute. But they would come around.

"I could uncover all their deepest, darkest secrets," Tom suggested idly. "Or better yet, I could slit their throats at their breakfast tables."

"That's not funny," said Hermione solemnly, glaring at him.

"But don't you realize how ravishing you look when you're angry, love?"

Hermione sighed. "Why have you brought me here?"

"I caught Grindelwald."

Hermione's jaw slackened and for a moment she was dumbfounded. Then she remembered to smile.

"Congratulations," she said. "I suppose Harry's going to be paying out quite a lot of gold to a lot of people now."

Tom's smile curdled slightly but he shrugged. "Potter was there too."

Hermione did her utmost not to laugh, mindful of Tom's pride, which practically necessitated its own chair at a table.

"How did you pull it off?" she asked in what she hoped was a level voice. She would be getting an earful about this from Harry later, she was quite certain.

"That tiresome lot who pledged themselves to me in Argentina have accumulated quite the following. It seems an absurd number of urban legends have sprung up around me. I hardly even had to establish a network of spies, since I already had one at my disposal. Very disappointing. Potter and I were the only ones to do the actual dueling, though. Quite the hindrance, your friend Potter. I could have gotten it done in half the time without him."

"I'm sure," said Hermione a little sarcastically, but her mind was singing. She knew what this meant: this was the outcome Tom had clung to after Grindelwald had taken Merope from him. At long last, he could feel that he had accomplished what he had set out to do.

She contemplated him and went on, more to herself than anything, "All these followers of yours. You've really got it made, haven't you? And all these extra years of life Grindelwald left you..."

Tom's expression was one she had seldom seen. It was almost... tender.

"My life will end when yours does, love," he told her. "Whenever that might be. My body was built upon your magic. I don't exist without you."

She looked at him incredulously. He was speaking calmly, even serenely.

"Until then, I find myself with a rather unique tool at my disposal," he went on. "Great things are going to happen in this room, Hermione. We got quite a bit out of Grindelwald before disposing of him. Information the founders kept to themselves. Old secrets. I may even discover a way to gift my hundred years to you, someday."

Hermione's heart twisted oddly as Tom brushed a strand of hair from her face and let his hand rest at the side of her neck, cupping her jaw. It was almost painful to look at him. She had never wanted anything, loved anything, been utterly and deliciously baffled by anything, so much as him. _You don't leave like him, you be a man,_ Merope had said. But she could have had no idea how far above and beyond her words he would go.

Hermione kissed him. He smiled.

"Meanwhile," Tom said, "we have time enough to go anywhere, do anything—_everything_—we like."


End file.
